


I Say Unto You, Love Your Enemies

by A_N_D



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Gen, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Tortured Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_N_D/pseuds/A_N_D
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley, having successfully prevented Armageddon, think they will settle down to a quiet existence of enjoying worldly pleasures and each other’s company.Heaven, Hell, and God Herself have other plans. One of them is Ineffable and it is only halfway finished…Title from Matthew 5:44
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 336
Kudos: 328





	1. The Knowledge Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Beta readers: Luthe, Mew_Cat
> 
> Do NOT post to other sites

Crowley was dreaming of Eden. He could feel the warmth of the sun, smell the lush plant growth, hear the singing.

…singing?

He blinked awake. He was in his bed, his own bed, black and diabolic as normal – but yes, his fuzzy brain reminded him as it came up to speed, as of a few days ago, his own bed and his own rooms were now located in the newly created wing across from Aziraphale's above the shop. His furnishings to the left, Aziraphale's to the right, the center space below the skylight neutral territory – and both of them free of Heaven and Hell, able to share each other's company as they pleased.

Aziraphale didn't sleep, but that hadn't stopped him from indulging Crowley's request to join him in bed – sometimes for corporeal activities, sometimes for just company through the night. For that purpose Azirphale had added a nightstand and a few books and would spend the night reading, letting Crowley wrap around him and using bits of Crowley as a bookstand. Apparently Aziraphale had tucked Crowley under the blankets when he got up.

That was the sensation.

His plants were all in the center space, thriving under the skylight because they knew the penalty if they didn't.

That was the scent.

And Aziraphale himself… he was the sound.

Aziraphale had sung like this in Eden. From his post on top of the Eastern Gate he was the first to see the sun rising, so he saluted each new day with the only songs he knew, ones with choruses that were heavy on "Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God Almighty." But he’d dared to change the verses, turning the lyrics into praise not for God Herself but his happiness in sharing the splendors of Her latest creation.

Aziraphale may not have invented good lyrics or even rhymes, but he had invented the song of thanksgiving.

There had been no more singing after Eden, not that Crowley ever heard, but Aziraphale was giving full-throated thanks now. He was thanking the Almighty for books in general, for his luck in obtaining a complete rare book collection in specific, and asking for a blessing on his bookshop's first day in its new guise.

Crowley was internally debating if he was just going to lie there enjoying Aziraphale being so… Aziraphale… or throw a pillow at him for ruining Crowley's lie-in, but before he could decide the song came to its unexpected crescendo: "… and most of all, I praise and thank You for Your greatest gifts to me – knowing him, loving him, sharing Your world with him."

In the following silence, Crowley heard Aziraphale moving away to his own side of the flat. He stared, wide-eyed and shocked, at the ceiling above him.

Finally he said, "I can’t blame him for talking to You. I still talk to You. Well, ask questions. So here’s a question for You - never stop loving him, will You?"

-

_Oh, my ever-curious little one, you haven’t found the answer yet. All love is of Me and from Me. I love him of course, I absolutely adore him – with every fiber of your heart._

-

"So," Crowley drawled, joining Aziraphale at the central table for breakfast. "I thought last time you tried to talk to the Almighty it went wrong?"

Aziraphale blushed a bit, avoiding Crowley's eye. "Well, this wasn't a petition for an audience, was it? I just… said how I was feeling. Like humans do." (He did not add "Like you do too," although he was well aware of it.)

"Besides," Aziraphale tucked into his take-away omelet. "It's Heaven's bureaucracy I have issues with, not our Creator." He wiggled a bit in his seat. Crowley, a connoisseur of those wiggles, rated it half avoidance and half excitement, with a little bit of worry mixed in. "Opening day for the new shop."

"To the new shop," Crowley echoed, raising his cup of tea in lieu of a wineglass. "It's going to be so perfect, people will think it's a miracle."

Aziraphale looked at him then, all blushes and shy smiles, gently clinking his teacup against Crowley's.

-

The scents of new paint and fresh ink were dull to Crowley's serpent nose (he was keeping his tongue firmly to himself) as he flowed down the circular stairs, slithered a last circuit of the shop, and coiled up on the window seat right underneath the new sign, the one that read:

KNOWLEDGE SHOP REFERENCE LIBRARY

NO OUTSIDE FOOD

NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY

PENCILS ONLY

NO BOOKS LEAVE THE PREMISES

VIOLATORS WILL BE FED TO THE SNAKE

"We're expecting three today," Aziraphale told the snake, picking a clipboard off of what had been the cashier's desk. "All working on various history of religion projects for Dr. Dudders of the University of London."

"Word will ssspread," Crowley assured him. "Other professsorsss will catch on, and who knowsss? We may catch ourssselvesss an author doing resssearch."

"You make it sound like you're trapping your dinner," Azriaphale said, amused, and Crowley flicked his tongue out at him, smells be blessed.

And indeed, the first person who came through the door was an older man dressed in a yarmulke, a dark dapper suit, and a deep purple tie, who looked around in confusion.

"I thought this was a bookshop?"

  
"It used to be," Aziraphale said smoothly, "But we've rebranded."

"Oh. Er. You see, I said to myself 'Now that I'm retired, it's time to write that book,' and I'd hoped I could purchase some of my reference materials here."

 _Fat chance anytime_ the snake thought with amusement.

Aziraphale, though, almost burst the buttons on his well-worn waistcoat. "Now you don't even have to buy them! We're waiving our fee for the first month, too, to build up word of mouth." He waved the clipboard. "What shall I put down for your name and interest?"

"Mr. Solomons." He shook Aziraphale's hand, eyed Crowley (who flicked his tongue at him too), and added, "Well.... I've always wanted to write a book about books of prophecy and how they correlate to the various translations of the Bible created during their historical era. I'm sure it's dull as dishwater to a literary man like yourself, but I could just read different bibles and prophecies all day long."

Aziraphale beamed (literally until Crowley gave him a warning hiss). "Oh, Mr. Solomons, you have come to the right place!"

-

Word did spread - among professors, among students, among authors. Students in particular flocked to the place – the opening times were class-friendly, the entry fee (when it was finally established) was so low as to be negligible, the items in the tea corner were filling, and the proprietors were friendly and willing to give advice on everything from schoolwork to life problems. Even better, if even the nominal fee was too much of a challenge for a student, suddenly they would find the whole thing waived in lieu of a very short period of exceptionally easy work capped with particularly nutritious extra tea and nibbles – and that wasn't all.

"I can't believe it!" gasped Terry. "I almost died when I heard how expensive this textbook was. You've really found a used copy you'll sell to me for only five pounds? It's a miracle!"

("It's not a miracle you found it," Crowley snickered to Aziraphale that night over wine. "The miracle is you were willing to sell it.")

Aziraphale put more small tables in his various alcoves, then let people sit on the floor, then created timeslot signups. He also broke down under repeated requests and Crowley's urging and installed recharge stations for the various phones, tablets, and laptops the students were using. (Aziraphale remained completely unaware that there was more to the process than buying some stations, slapping them to the walls in locations where he least had to look at them, and confidently expecting them to dispense electricity. Which they did, despite not having connections, wiring, or even screws to hold them in place. Some of the students noticed that whatever connection cord a station had would change to the cord they needed as soon as they touched it, but they had sworn a pact amongst themselves to never, ever speak of this.)

Aziraphale was in metaphorical heaven – a much better Heaven for him than the real one; surrounded by interesting people who respected him and wouldn't take his emotional support literature away.

Crowley, on the other hand, was descending into a personal Hell and finding it just as disturbing as the real one.

For millennia his serpent form had inspired awe and terror; now he was becoming brutally aware of the meaning of the phrase "boop the snoot," and it didn't help that Aziraphale dissolved into giggles every time it happened. Here he was, a literal demon from literal Hell and he couldn't catch a single afternoon's snooze on the window seat without humans pressing his nose like an elevator button. It was insulting, that's what it was, and to the disappointment of some of the humans (and the major relief of others) the massive snake was seen less and less in the shop.

One day Crowley draped the sign warning that he'd eat people with the most realistic rubber snake he could find, and took fierce joy in watching the duller humans tapping its nose in the hopes it was alive. When he found a different rubber snake he felt was even more realistic he swapped them out, tucking the first one into various odd corners of the shop where it was most likely to startle a human into a scream.

To his delight, the humans just decided everything was real and Aziraphale was some sort of snake handler, while Crowley's other form passed into legend. He was shelving books the day he heard a couple of the students talking.

"Is there really a big snake in here? I’ve never seen it."

"Joe saw it about a month ago. You know that antique sofa over there, the one by Fell’s desk?"

"Yeah."

"Joe said one day he was hoping to sit there, only there was this huge black snake coiled up on it. Long as the Thames it was, taking up the whole sofa. The snake had a big lump in it and Joe asked Mr. Fell what it had eaten and he said ‘The last person who didn’t wash their hands before handling the books.’ Joe swore the snake laughed. He swore it on a Bible."

Crowley smiled nostalgically.

"Mr. Fell?" Joe's friend asked. "You're a snake handler. Do you have any reptile tips?"

"It's Mr. Crowley who's the snake person," came the tart reply. "All I can tell you is to not let it make a drunken bet it can swallow a roasted turkey whole. It'll be useless for weeks."

The other cause of Crowley's distress was a sort of free-floating anxiety that he should be doing something – if he could only figure out what. He certainly had things to do: in addition to amusing himself and annoying Aziraphale with rubber snakes, he made restaurant reservations, scouted for new books, even made deals with various London university professors regarding class research and shop hours. (That part he enjoyed more than he thought he ought to, but at least this time the contracts weren’t actually sending anyone to Hell who wasn’t headed there already.)

But for most of his existence he had been a creator, be it major nebulae or minor annoyances. Now, with more security than he could have dreamed and all of Aziraphale's company he could have wished for, not making something, anything, itched at him. But what was there for him to create? Aside from continuing to terrify his plants, nothing really called to him. He'd had long talks with Aziraphale about it at nights, rejecting suggestions that ranged from landscape artist to bookbinder. (That last rejection made Aziraphale pout for three days).

He was on the verge of creating some huge demonic disturbance just to get rid of the itch he could not scratch when Alisha came to the Knowledge Shop.

She hadn’t been on the morning’s list of researchers; she simply came in one day when it was open. Aziraphale was at his desk and Crowley was shelving books, so it was Mr. Solomons (who came early every day to stake out a spot near the door) who looked up and greeted her first.

Obviously mistaking him for one of the proprietors, she launched immediately into her request. "Hi, I'm Alisha, I want to do a research project on cooking. How do I get onto your research list and what cookery books do you have?"

Aziraphale was already reciting as he bustled over. "We have several copies of Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management, of course, that dates to the 1860s. From the 18th century we have Kidder's Receipts of Pastry and Cookery For The Use of His Scholars, Cookery Reformed and the Family Physician, Every Woman her own House-Keeper by Perkins, and of course both original and reprint copies of The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by Hannah Glasse. For modern recreations, we have the Knight Family cookbook – they were related to Jane Austen, you know."

"Anything earlier?"

"I am very pleased to tell you that we do have one copy of the 1615 New Booke of Cookerie and even," he bounced a little with excitement, "the oldest cookbook in English, The Forme of Cury from 1390. Those books are _not_ reprints and I do not let others handle them, but I am willing to let you look over my shoulder and take photographs – without flash, of course – on prior arrangement. Is there a specific recipe you're looking for?"

She pondered this. "Have you heard of the Ancient Egyptian Bread Project?"

  
Aziraphale blinked. "The what?"

"So, there’s a guy named Seamus Blackley who says he’s developed yeast strains from ancient pottery and is trying to recreate bread exactly as the Egyptians made it – same grains, same pots, same cooking methods – everything. I'm not a good enough baker to make the case I should get any – well, not yet I'm not – but it made me think. Can he? Can he really make ancient bread? Or all those all those Roman fish sauce recipes online, you know, garum – which one is the most accurate? Can the real thing even be recreated? It's not like anyone knows what it's really supposed to taste like."

Crowley remembered exactly what it tasted like.

So did Aziraphale, who unconsciously licked his lips. Crowley had to hand it to his gluttonous angel; Aziraphale _never_ forgot a meal he’d really enjoyed.

As she rattled on and Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other over her shoulder, Crowley realized what he'd been missing.


	2. The Calm Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love him. I love him so much; how could anyone not love someone that gloriously ridiculous? Please. Please. Don't… don't ever let anything bad happen to him."

Crowley’s previous experience with edibles – aside from the whole apple thing - leaned more toward alcohols than food, alcohol being the easiest pathway to temptation. Because women were the first brewers Crowley had become a woman too, although unlike human women she’d been able to morph her body and keep right on going when men took over beer brewing and mead making.

But she’d never really cooked anything and his entire experience of cooking consisted of using The Great British Bake Off to tempt Aziraphale to watch TV for the first time (and then accidentally finding himself just as absorbed).

Yelling at the television about ludicrous flavor combinations and soggy bottoms as if he had the faintest clue what he was talking about was one thing; actually mashing things together and solidifying them with heat like a human was quite another. Crowley’s first miserable attempts at scones were sad, pathetic affairs, fit only to leave out anonymously for the hungriest students to steal. (Anyone attempting to take a book out of the shop might meet the wrath of Heaven and Hell combined, but none of the students seemed to notice that the fruit and snacks in the tea area were all deliberately pocket-sized and portable.)

Crowley was a fast learner and willing to work hard, especially at anything that would please Aziraphale. By the fourth batch of scones, everyone in the library was daring a nibble. By the sixth batch, students were heading to the tea section and taking one before even picking up their books. By the eighth batch, Aziraphale was commandeering half the bake for his own before anything went downstairs at all. By the tenth batch, nothing lasted long enough to grow cool (not that anything Crowley baked would dare grow cool before he gave it permission.)

Unlucky thirteen was the lucky charm for a demon. That bake came out absolutely perfect.

He hand-fed every one to Aziraphale.

-

The kitchen on Crowley’s side of the flat, which had been formerly sterile and stuffed with whatever random flashy gadgets the humans considered popular, suddenly got more use than his bed while the showy gadgets were slowly weeded out in favor of whatever he needed to tackle his current project.

His indoor garden was also evolving; herbs, berry shrubs, and even dwarf fruit trees slowly appeared in the circular room above the stairs. (Aziraphale was also adding to the decoration; interspersed among the greenery were his latest collection: antique globes.) Crowley’s overall gardening techniques hadn’t changed, but his older plants were somewhat soothed that his worst anger was no longer aimed at them. The only thing that put Crowley into a fury faster than a brown leaf on ornamental greenery was the very idea he might feed anything less than the peak of plant perfection to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale once caught Crowley trying to feed a full-grown rosemary bush branches first down the garbage disposal. (That this was not technically possible did not occur to Aziraphale, Crowley, the rosemary, or the disposal. Especially the disposal, which knew more than anything what the horrific price of disappointing Crowley could be.)

Aziraphale had pulled the quaking bush out of his hands, miracled it back into its place in the garden, and finally wrangled a promise out of Crowley to never do that ever again.

All of the plants in earshot heaved a sigh of relief, especially the rosemary, which was dropping needles in terror. When Crowley returned to the garden room – alone – it bucked up thinking that it would get a second chance.

Crowley incinerated it on the spot with hellfire.

As Death came to collect it, the last thing it heard on this mortal coil was Crowley grimly telling the others, "I expect your best for him AND I WILL GET IT!"

-

Aziraphale had hinted that he’d turn a blind eye to however many miracles it took to restore shop cookbooks that had been splattered or singed, but just paging through one left Crowley feeling desperately ignorant. What was "flour enough"? Or "chop fine but not too fine"? He may have flailed his way into proper scones, but getting anything else right was going to take hands-on experience.

He started signing up for evening cooking classes all around London; any cuisine, any food, even ones Crowley theoretically already knew. (Butter making had come a long way since the days when you sealed milk and air inside a goat skin. You could even flavor it now!) As soon as the Knowledge Shop closed for the day – and sometimes slightly before then – Crowley was haring off for a few hours, returning with containers of fresh food: flavored butters and vinegars, soft cheeses, fresh pastas, chocolates, risottos, tapas, piroshky, curries, cakes, and more, all of which were laid before Aziraphale as if they were sacrifices on an altar.

Forget the Ritz, the happiest date they’d ever shared was the afternoon Crowley set a full tea of his own making in front of Aziraphale.

  
But it wasn't until the he heard the singing that Crowley realized just how happy he was making his angel. Aziraphale had forgotten to shut the bedroom door before his dawn hymn of thanksgiving again, sending Crowley through a variety of emotions – annoyance about being blasted awake by blessed caroling, followed by confusion about the song, which had a distinctly maritime theme this morning. Aziraphale was thanking God directly for the splendors of the sea and the riches therein, going to the trouble of naming various seaweeds and fishes individually. There was something about those fishes in particular, something familiar…

It clicked and Crowley was suddenly writhing on the bed, sinking his teeth into the pillow to keep from screaming out loud with laughter.

Aziraphale was thanking the Almighty for the ingredients Crowley had used in last night's sushi feast.

It wasn't until Aziraphale ended with the usual thanks for life with Crowley and moved off to his side of the flat that Crowley dared spit out cloth and feathers to add his own prayer.

"I love him. I love him so much; how could anyone not love someone that gloriously ridiculous? Please. Please. Don't… don't ever let anything bad happen to him."

-

_I will not promise you that, I never promise that. But know that you have done so well. Do you even realize that you have not once prayed to undo your own Fall since the two of you stopped that foolish war? You have learned to think of another before yourself, Crowley._

_One more task, My brave little ones, one more test. I ache to reward you for passing it._

-

Away from the idyll on Earth, things were not going so well. Heaven and Hell had thought themselves well rid of their terrifying hellfire-spitting/holy-water bathing traitors and could get back to the normal business of saving or damning souls. Instead, conversations like this were happening on an almost hourly basis:

"What do you mean you were diszcorporated asz szoon asz you appeared?"

"Gabriel, I couldn't deliver the message because as soon as I spoke, the human sprayed something called 'mace' into my face."

"The SZatanic Temple iszn't oursz? THEY'RE THE SZATANIC TEMPLE! How dare the humansz declare a 'miszzion to encourage benevolencze and reject tyrannical authority' in Szatan's name!"

"Michael, I have failed you and Heaven. I beg forgiveness."

Orders were bellowed. Arguments were fought. Meetings ended with everyone in tears. But at last it was decided that the unthinkable must not just be thought, but spoken.

"We need their experience."

-

Gabriel had a manic gleam in his eye and his smile had never seemed more false. "Think of it as a wonderful opportunity!"

"Uh…"

  
"THINK OF IT AS AN ORDER!"

"Sir Yes Sir Gabriel Sir!"

-

Beelzebub didn't bother raising her voice. She sounded rather bored, even. "Find out how to do it right or be boiled in oil for a czentury."


	3. Divine and Demonic Messengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first to appear was a nervous angel in the sky behind the bookshop's upper floor, wings spread and shining with terrified glory as a supportive backup Heavenly host started to sing. Started. Because the angel only got as far as "Aziraphale, fear n-" before Crowley nailed them right between the eyes with an expertly flung shoe.

The first to appear was a nervous angel in the sky behind the bookshop's upper floor, wings spread and shining with terrified glory as a supportive backup Heavenly host started to sing. Started. Because the angel only got as far as "Aziraphale, fear n-" before Crowley nailed them right between the eyes with an expertly flung shoe.

While the angel flapped in panic and the choir found somewhere very, very far away to be very, very quiet in, Crowley howled "Some of us are trying to SLEEP here!" and banged the window shut.

-

Second was a demon, looking as Hellish as possible with swarms of insects circling the horns jutting from their head, rising slowly and menacingly up out of the ground right by the driver side door as Crowley parked the Bentley. As they rose they looked at Crowley, who rolled the window down, casually pulled a water gun up into view, and asked "Hmmmm?"

The demon shot back downwards so fast there was a minor earthquake.

-

The third was a slightly smarter demon, who took pains to be disguised as a human. They hadn’t wanted to go to the shop – everyone in Hell knew that was angel territory – but anything was better than bursting into Crawley’s flat.

Everyone in Hell also knew what happened to Ligur.

So the demon slunk to the crossroads of Soho… and blinked. Heaven and Hell both were well aware that the angel hated to actually sell his precious books and nearly never opened the shop, so why was there a small queue of barely adult humans waiting outside the door of A Z Fell & Co?

Didn't matter, though, did it? Humans were humans, meant to be corrupted. As the demon got closer, they got a better feel of their targets. University students! Oh, students were so easy. Lust for another student or a professor. Pride – not just in a good job, but overweening pride about being smarter than everyone else. Sloth in avoiding work. Some would even sell their souls just for good marks, only to forget and be shocked years later at the end of a relatively virtuous life. Hell just loved that one!

They had just begun the subtle work of twisting minds when a new voice called out, bright and cheerful, "Welcome everyone! Tell me your name as you come in so I can check you off the list. No outside food or drink but we have water, coffee, tea and snacks in the nook next to the pencils and paper. Don't flash if you photograph pages. Books you requested are already out and marked with your name. Sit anywhere you’ll be comfortable except at my desk under the east alcove. The one with the mug with the wings on it. That’s mine. You may sit on the sofa next to it but Crowley may turf you out when he gets back; that’s his seat. Oh, good morning, Mr. Solomons! I look forward to continuing yesterday's conversation, just let me get everyone inside."

The angel frowned as people the demon had begun to twist brushed past him, but they were still allowed into the… was it a bookshop anymore? The place where Crawley obviously was, anyway, lounging around, pretending to be too good for Hell instead of doing any proper tempting.

And so it went until the demon reached the doorway. For a moment they saw just a middle-aged human male with bright white curls wearing an old-fashioned three-piece tan velvet suit and holding a clipboard. But as they tried to sidle past, his hand shot out and grabbed the demon’s elbow like pincers. (And the demon knew well what pincers felt like.)

"I don’t believe you’re on my list."

"Got business," the demon muttered. "With Crawley."

"I don’t care what business you’re up to, you’re not doing it here or with these people anywhere." The light of Heaven blazed out – just for a nanosecond, no more than a flash – forcing the demon to fall back, blinking away the image of protectively spread white wings burned into their retinas.

Aziraphale leaned down and whispered in their ear. "No one in Hell has business with _Crowley_ anymore, and these young’uns are under my protection. Go. Away. Stay. Away." He stood straight again, staring unblinkingly into the demon’s eyes, calling more loudly, "You’ve got the wrong shop, my friend, but _bless you_ on your travels back home."

They tried to run but the blessing clung to them, stinging and stinking. They went away. They stayed away.

-

Fourth was an angel, who finally got it right. No ambush appearances, no theatrics, no meddling with the humans. They knocked politely on the door of the reference library an hour before closing and didn't flinch – much – when it was opened by an annoyed demon.

The angel didn't make any threats or demands, just said quietly and _very_ politely, "My name is Laradiri. I would like to speak with Aziraphale whenever it would be convenient, please."

The demon snorted derisively. "That'll be never, then. I'm not letting you lot anywhere near my angel."

Laradiri quietly made note of the possessive before trying again. "I just want to talk."

"Suuure you do." The demon – Crowley, it had to be Crowley, didn't it? - sniffed at them, unimpressed, before leaning in and drawling, "You stink of sanctimonious bureaucrats. Did Gabriel send you?"

"NO! No, no, nonononono… yes. Sort of. Not like that, though."

Crowley slid his sunglasses down so the angel could see his snake eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Like what, then?"

"Like… like…" Laradiri was a very young angel; extremely low in the hierarchy, created well after Earth’s Creation, much less the war in Heaven. Faced with the demon who survived both the war and holy water, knowing they were outclassed in every way, they miserably blurted out the truth. "I was sent here to do Heaven’s work and I keep getting it wrong! I frighten them and they run away; I try to be less frightening and they, they… well they frighten _me_ and I’m at my wit’s end. I went to Texas to bless a couple with child, and the second I showed up they discorporated me on the spot! With something called a shot-gun. There was ever so much paperwork and I got scolded by Gabriel and warned not to mess up again. I thought perhaps someone with more experience could give me advice?"

Crowley snorted and Laradiri closed their eyes, almost discorporating from terror. Was the demon going to spit hellfire on them?

"Swear."

Laradiri cracked open one eye, blurting "I don't bargain with demons!"  
  
"Add in the Almighty, if it makes you feel better. But you don't get near him without swearing to me, personally, that you will not hurt him. Because if you do hurt him I, personally, will make you _pay_." He licked a finger which sparked into flame, idly burning off a bit of peeling paint on the doorjamb by rubbing at it.

"What – what about you? Don't you want me to swear not to hurt you?"

"Do you expect me to believe you if you do? You're an angel. It's your job to get smitey and thwarty with demons."

"Not you." Laradiri was very sure of that. "Everyone knows he's your… you're his…" Laradiri ground to a halt. Everyone knew that Crowley and Aziraphale were something to each other, but nobody was entirely sure what, specifically, and some of the speculation was downright horrifying. "You're together," they finished lamely.

"I'm protecting him from all harm, and most of the harm ever dealt him has come from your lot."

Laradiri was about to protest, but… Crowley was right. They had read the official records. History said Aziraphale had done rather well for himself in the War. Angels had been the ones to belittle and ignore him after he was assigned to Earth. There were even hushed rumors that Sandalphon and Uriel had become violent to Aziraphale's physical corporation with Michael's approval.

"I swear to the Lord and to you." That was vague enough to keep them out of trouble with Heaven, surely.  
  
"Think I don't know that trick? Be specific."  
  
"I swear I mean no harm and will bring no harm to Aziraphale or you." Suddenly on a roll and inspired, Laradiri added "I swear peace to all things holy, human, and peaceful unholy inside your shop."

"That'll do." Crowley finally, finally leaned away from the door, opening it wider. "Mind you, he's not even here right now."

Laradiri glared, but all Crowley did was spread his hands with a "what did you expect from a demon?" expression.

Inside was a rumpus of books and scrolls and worn padded furniture, all of it occupied. There were small tables in the alcoves in three of the cardinal directions; two mismatched chairs had been dragged up to each table, both filled. The sofa held three – two sitting on it, and one on the floor leaning comfortably against it. Each of the four central pillars had someone using it as a backrest while they sat on the floor, surrounded by stacks of books. Some were taking notes in pencil; others were breaking the silence with tiny clicks and snaps from devices held in their laps or their hands.

The only untaken chair was at a particularly large and messy desk in the east alcove – Laradiri headed toward it only to be stopped by a meaningful throat-clearing from Crowley. So Laradiri decided to clasp their hands behind their back and browse through the books.

The calmness was a façade; every nerve strained to track the demon walking so comfortably around an angel’s space. Crowley was… patrolling seemed the only appropriate word, although his circuits were so leisurely that attention had to be paid to realize he kept circling around. Sometimes one of the humans would whisper to him and he would answer. Once a human stretched and almost – almost – knocked over a drink of some sort. It was nothing short of a miracle that Crowley was right there, and had moved with the speed of a snake to steady the cup before it spilled on the old books.

Nothing short of a miracle. But… he was a demon, wasn’t he? He stank of evil (if only a little bit), yet when he next wandered into the alcove where Laradiri was, he looked over a human’s shoulder and murmured "I know that’s what the books say that hieroglyph means, but it’s in front of this one – see? Here and here? When it’s in front of that one, it means something else entirely. That’s why your translation of these photos isn’t working."

"But wait… that would mean that…" the human scribbled frantically for a moment, then held an index card up for approval. "It really means this, then?" Crowley nodded and the human impulsively hugged him. "Oh my GOD! THANK you! I can’t afford to fail this class, I just can’t!"

Crowley hadn’t so much as twitched when the word was shouted right in his ear. He just patted the human on the shoulder, assuring him "You will not fail." Laradiri felt the spark of a miracle, started to speak. Crowley frowned at the angel and shook his head just a fraction.

The demon moved on – but this time, when he bent to talk to the other person at the table, his tone had changed. Lower. Smoother. Seductive.

Tempting!

Laradiri shivered while Crowley whispered into the human’s ear that it was up to him, it was always up to him, but this was such a waste of time, don’t you think, so many better things to do than sit here in the dark and dust with stupid books. You could even say you’d made it into the most exclusive reference library in London, congratulations, but wasn’t it a huge waste, why even be in university at all, it was so boring and beneath someone so talented and so important as him, the world was waiting, fame and fortune were waiting right now and he was just shut away in stupid classes with stupider teachers…

The bell over the door chimed and Aziraphale entered, juggling several large bags that smelled of food. Several of the students turned and made covetous moaning noises, but Aziraphale was unmoved. "All right, everyone, the shop is closed! Leave your books and pencils where they are, put any cups and plates you’ve used back by the tea tray, call ahead for an appointment to come back again. Good bye!"

Students were still focused on the bags Aziraphale was holding until Crowley lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. Suddenly there was a pile of brightly colored papers in a basket by the door. "Oh, and Mr. Fell brought you coupons for student discounts at Angelo’s Italian. They’re right by the door, feel free to take one," Crowley called as the students shuffled out. The shuffle turned into a rush, punctuated with enthusiastic calls of thanks.

"Tempting them to gluttony?" Aziraphale asked with an amount of amusement that shocked Laradiri as the last of the students banged out the door. Aziraphale glanced at but ignored Laradiri, looked around at the mess, shrugged, and snapped his fingers. Miraculously, all of the tables were cleared and the bookshelves were full. Crowley snapped at the tea area, with equally miraculous results. Laradiri was shocked again at the lazy frivolity.

"They’re students, they’re underfed. Do ‘em good to stuff themselves. Pasta's cheap enough for Angelo and it will keep some of them from trying to live on energy drinks and what they steal from here."

"It's not stealing if we expect them to take it."

"Sssssstealing," Crowley said triumphantly. "Haven't you noticed how they try to hide it? Just a little tiny temptation but so effective."

"Better to nourish their bodies as well as their minds, Crowley. Energy drinks were invented by your side, I believe."

Laradiri couldn’t keep silent, not when they were discussing sin. "That demon tempted people," they burst out. "Right here in your place! I heard him, putting doubt into a young man’s mind, tempting him to drop out of school entirely!"

"Richard?" Aziraphale didn’t look away from Crowley.

"He’s just taking up space that belongs to someone who’s really worthy of it, we both know it. I’m surprised you gave him permission to come back again; competition for one of the spots here is fierce, angel."

"I did it so you could tempt him to drop out, my dear. Jane Austen was right about Richards like that. He’ll never do anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name."

"Did you just call him a dick? The mouth on you, Aziraphale!"

"You did notice he tried to steal more than food tonight? He’s just the sort to want to brag about being the only person to get away with taking a book out of A. Z. Fell and Crowley."

"Including your customers back when this was a bookshop."

Aziraphale made a blatant show of ignoring that as he placed his bags on the closest table. "He will find, when he pulls out his ‘ancient book of alchemy,’ that he is instead proudly displaying to his friends a brand new copy of ‘Make Gonorrhea Gone With Self-Hypnosis’."

"Oh, good one!"

"Speaking of good ones," Aziraphale said, finally turning to Laradiri. "What can I do for you, young angel?"

"I have come for some advice," Laradiri admitted. "I’m… having trouble assimilating onto Earth enough to properly fulfill my Heavenly duty."

"There’s a knack to humanity," Aziraphale admitted. "Well, tell us about it over dinner."

"You're not going to share our-"

"I could not possibly consume-"

Aziraphale cut off both loud objections with a snort. "Fine, you talk. We’ll eat. Come on upstairs."

Laradiri, horrified to set foot into the shared nest of whatever-it-was they had built together, trudged unwillingly behind them up the stairs.

On the next floor, it became a bit clearer. Through a door to the right was another room that looked just like the comfortably crowded jumble of books downstairs, while through a door to the left Laradiri could see into a cold, nearly bare room, with a large drawing of a woman on the wall, a sort of stone bookstand depicting an eagle, and a statue of two beings, winged beings, in the act of… Laradiri ripped their shocked gaze away and stared fixedly at a large plant in front of them. Yes, that was a good plant. Lush. Green. What a good plant to look at. Presumably God but certainly Laradiri saw that it was good.

They ignored the hissing snicker behind them.

Later, they would also ignore that some of the best advice was coming from a demon.

-

When Laradiri finally reported back to Gabriel, they were praised for turning around an obviously failing approach and successfully saving so many souls.  
  


They did not say who taught them how to do it.

-

_That's two of My angels you've successfully tempted, Crowley. How many more will there be?_


	4. As Above, So Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tempted to shut the door on her?" It was a new voice but it didn't sound friendly. "Wouldn't do that. There's a price for giving in to temptation, you know that."
> 
> The angel looked over his shoulder. "One of yours, Crowley."
> 
> A hand nudged the angel out of the way, leaving her face to face with Hell's most infamous demon. "You. There's a price for you to pay too."

She was young, she was scared, she was injured, she was in terrible trouble, and she was on the verge of discorporating. Clutching the side of her bodily corporation where she'd been knifed, she was staggering along the alleys trying to figure out what to do. She had failed her mission and Lord Beezlebub wasn't the kind of leader who believed in constructive criticism and a pat on the back for trying your best.

She stumbled out at an infamous crossroads and stared with equal hope and horror at the sign for the shop. Crowley was a killer. But it was also rumored that he could be… well, not kind, but not constantly cruel either. He hadn't soaked Hell's previous emissary with holy water, had he? He'd just threatened to.

Maybe, just maybe, if the demon answered the door she could have a future.

But her lack of luck held. The door was answered by the angel, who looked as if he would be quite happy to toss an entire baptismal fount in her face.

"Please," she begged.

The angel didn't budge. "I won't let anyone hurt him anymore. If you touch as much as a single scale or hair…"

"I won't, I won't, I swear!" she told him.

The word reminded her of something she'd heard whispered in the halls of Hell, something about an angel that had managed to infiltrate the shop and what it had had to promise to get inside. She tried again: "I pledge truce to all in these walls, holy or human, a truce. Please help me."

"Tempted to shut the door on her?" It was a new voice but it didn't sound friendly. "Wouldn't do that. There's a price for giving in to temptation, you know that."

The angel looked over his shoulder. "One of yours, Crowley."

A hand nudged the angel out of the way, leaving her face to face with Hell's most infamous demon. "You. There's a price for you to pay too."

"Anything. Anything. I'll have sex with you, I'll bind myself to you as a slave, I'll – "

"Shut it and follow me."

-

Crowley wasn't happy at having another demon in the shop, but she had said the right words. (Crowley would never, ever, admit even to himself that the right words were actually "please help me.")

"I'll take care of this," he said, half marching her and half dragging her to the back room.

Once inside, he let go and she dropped to the floor. "Tell me everything," he ordered.

It didn't take long. Her name was Agares, she had failed at getting a gang leader to start a riot, a gang enforcer damaged her corporation, and now Lord Beezlebub was going to make an example of her.

"Hmmm," was all Crowley said. He called hellfire to his hand, using it to heal and seal the hole in her side, taking care to not spill a single spark on the books and wood all around them. As she stood back up, he nodded once, then ordered, "Sit tight, stay here, obey the truce. Don't leave until I tell you to."

He shut the door to keep her in. Pressing her ear against the wood, she heard him assuring the angel. "She'll be fine, just needs some rest. Be right back. Got something to do."

An hour later he was slipping into the back room again. "Okay, here's how it goes. Wait here another two hours. You can come out of this room but you don't want to risk being seen through a window. Do NOT let any of the humans know what you are. Then go back and tell Lord Beezlebub that this way was better because it got more souls for Hell."

"Did you start the riot?"

"No riots! They hurt too many people who are just unlucky enough to get in the way. This is better. Beezlebub will like it."

"And the… price?"

"I want you to find a soul for me. A Roman named Petronius, would have died around 50 AD, give or take a few years. Hell or Heaven, I don't care where you find him, I just care that you do."

"And… then…?"

"Get his recipe for oysters. The _exact_ recipe. What he did, how he did it, where he got his ingredients, everything. I will know if you don't talk to Petronius himself, so don't play silly buggers with me or I'll find you and play silly buggers with your corporation's kidneys. Do you understand?"

The answer was "not at all" but to say that would be unthinkable, so she nodded.

"Good." He opened the door. "Don't take too long about it."

Down in Hell she got a commendation for reaping the souls of two rival gangs in a quick, contained, but intensely bloody gang war.

Up on Earth, Aziraphale sang the praises of shellfish for a week.

-

Ashmedai bustled through the crowds of Hell dragging a load of tools in a cart. Unlike the other demons, he considered his true calling to act as the sort of useful being that faded into the background doing practical things. He had never wanted to be a warrior, a lord, a reaper, or anything that stood out in the hierarchy of Hell. (He had not, for that matter, wanted to be a demon in the first place. Had suggesting a few fixes around Heaven really been that rebellious?)

He tried to be useful… but he really didn't know how. Trying to fix leaking pipes broke them more; trying to fix fizzling electronics only shorted out entire circles of Hell. He had tried to learn from damned souls, but they took one look at his massive claws and teeth and just whimpered inanely, cowering away as far as restraints would let them.

Ashmedai had tried to counterbalance this by requisitioning an entire group of engineers, ostensibly to torment them. However, Dagon had caught him trying to learn from them instead and the punishment was…

…well, actually not too horrible, because when Ashmedai was off being tortured, no one was mopping up the more disgusting spills. So Ashmedai was handed a mop, told to be a better demon, and sent on his way.

He was mopping up blood and viscera leaking underneath the door of the wing for abusive spouses – Lilith just loooooved her job – when he overheard whispering. And what demon could resist falling to the temptation to eavesdrop?

"… That was the price? Just a recipe?"

"A recipe and an oath. I am bound to not work against any angel or human who has visited the shop."

"That one angel, or all of them?"

"All of them. But the Great Serpent has demanded that angels must also swear an oath. So… I think I’m okay? If another angel shows up at the shop?"

"What about demons, did he make you swear not to work against demons?"

"Seriously? He's immune to holy water, he's not insane."

Mess mopped up, Ashmedai trundled away again before he could get caught. So… Crowley the Immune would help demons for a price.

Ashmedai would find a way to pay it.

It took some time (and a little subtle work on Ashmedai's part) but eventually pipes broke in the hall of records, and well, in order to do the job properly Ashmedai had to check to see if any of the paperwork was damaged, right? And if that meant reading every single field report from a certain demon and parsing out where he may have been feeding alongside a certain angel, well, Ashmedai was nothing if not meticulous in his work.

Collecting recipes without being caught was trickier, but at long last he had a thick sheaf of parchments and papers in various human languages. All that remained was his own paperwork.

"Reason for going topside?"

"To tempt humans and collect souls for Satan our master."

"Says here you want to go to Soho, London. Are you planning on talking to… _him_?"

This was a new question, and Ashmedai was proud of the answer he had come up with. "I plan to spy on the traitor demon and report his plans to Lord Beezlebub for proper response." Behind his back, he crossed two claws.

The questioning demon shuddered. "Better you than me, mate. I'm not going like Ligur." They pounded and swore at Hell's antiquated equipment, then finally waved vaguely at an alcove. "There's your corporation. It's called a 'male.' Don't report if it's uncomfortable or doesn't fit, because nobody cares."

It was uncomfortable. It didn't fit. The clothes, Ashmedai noticed, didn't look like anything other humans could be seen wearing, and he wondered when the corporation had last been used. He was pretty sure the corporation still smelled of a previous demon's sweat inside.

Still, after ages of planning, the moment had finally arrived. Struggling to move like walking on only two legs was perfectly normal, Ashemedai staggered to the shop door.

The door was opened by a man in a suit with a little black disc on the top of his head. Ashmedai was so worked up into a nervous tizzy that he didn't even bother to check hair color, demonic scent, or anything else – he just shoved the papers forward while blurting "IpromiseIwon'thurtanyonehere" in one word.

The man in the little black head covering blinked, obviously trying to come up with a response. "That's… good to know?" he finally said in confusion.

A flash of red hair could be seen over the man's shoulder and Ashmedai was ready to discorporate on the spot – of humiliation, of embarrassment, of sheer fear, didn't matter. After all that preparation, he'd done it wrong when it mattered.

Crowley pushed into the doorway, taking the papers. "Thanks, I'll handle this," he told the man, who walked off and sat back down at a little round table near the door. 

Crowley shuffled through the papers and raised an eyebrow at the shaking Ashmedai. "This is a lot."

"I want to learn a lot."

Crowley leaned against the door frame, managing to completely block the entrance with his slender corporation. "Learn… what? Temptations? Trickery? Mass distraction and annoyance? Looks like you're trying to buy an entire degree off of me."

"How can I pass for human?" Ashmedai begged. "I don't want to learn all that stuff, I want to learn human things. Electrics. Plumbing. How do they keep all this," he waved a hand vaguely at everything outside the shop, "working properly? How can I do that too?"

"Hmmm."

"I heard I have to say something. Promise things. I'll promise that. I won't hurt anyone here. I just want to learn how to fix things… you know where."

Crowley slid his sunglasses down, staring straight into Ashmedai's eyes. "Anyone here meaning…"

"Any being who has been here. No matter where they come from."

The glasses were pushed back into place. "All right, then."

-

Now that the proper approach had been demonstrated, angels and demons both started to regularly drift in looking for advice, a place to practice being human, or simply a safe space to rest for an hour or two before heading out into the world or back to home base to report. The human researchers were surprisingly unbothered by any of it, either because they miraculously didn’t notice some of the more egregious slips or because they had simply seen weirder from their own species. ("What show is that robe from? Can I take a picture of the embroidery?" the newly arrived angel Amides was asked. "Great contact lenses!" the demon Marut was told.)

No, horror and surprise were entirely on the supernatural side. If angels were dismayed that Aziraphale was so fond of material objects and sensual pleasures, they were shocked to the core that he allowed demons into his place at all. On the infernal side, demons were less disgusted by angelic presences than they were revolted that Crowley put strict limits on what he was willing to help with. No human possessions. No putting thoughts directly into human minds. Only irritations and suggestions – the kinds of temptations that left the humans wide open to choosing their own path, be it virtue or vice, without external nudging.

Any demon trying to get more creative would find that they were not only thwarted – sometimes painfully so – but that they would be thwarted by Aziraphale (leading every other angel who happened to be the area at the time) plus Crowley – and when Crowley got involved, things got very, very painful indeed.

The official Management position, Above and Below, was that it was a good thing to have so many celestials and infernals hanging around the place because it let the traitors know that there were eyes on them. Both Managements would have been offended to discover that the reverse was the official position of A.Z. Fell and his Co., that it was better that all these newbies and juniors have an experienced eye on them than to let them run loose among the humans causing chaos.

(The official position of Upper Upper Upper Management was a serene smile. God looked upon this and saw that it was good.)

So it was quite the pity when everything went to Hell.

Literally.


	5. What Good Intentions Pave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a heart full of the best of intentions, Laradiri miracled a glass of holy water and shoved it towards Crowley The Immune so fast that it slopped.
> 
> Crowley didn’t take it. Crowley snapped "SHIT!" and jumped back out of range. 
> 
> Laradiri was still holding out the glass in confusion when the swarm of demons appeared and dragged Crowley away in a burst of brimstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: NON-GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF TORTURE

With the rise in supernatural clientele, Aziraphale and Crowley started keeping the Knowledge Shop open between terms, although with reduced hours. On this cold, wet, miserable day in the Easter break, the shop contained two demons, two angels, and one human, no-one pretending to get anything done other than looking out the window at the rain and being happy at being inside, warm, and dry.

At least, that's what the two angels and the human were doing. Mr. Solomons was doing the crossword on a slightly damp newspaper he had brought in with him. Laradiri, officially passing through on their way to a blessing and unofficially waiting out the storm, hadn't turned a page in the book they were ostensibly reading for 20 minutes. Aziraphale was web surfing antique book sales, blithely unaware that his ancient computer should not be able to run a browser in the first place.

Crowley, however, was on high alert. Most of the demons who had come to the shop had been basically harmless; demons like him who viewed damnation as just a job and angels as nothing more than annoying co-workers from a different department. But every now and then one of the _other_ kind showed up, the kind like Hastur, the kind who took pleasure in pain and destruction.

Guziel may have taken the oath like everyone else, but Crowley could feel the evil simmering in them, the sulking menace even when they were simply sitting still and looking out the window. Guziel was waiting for something – Crowley didn't know what – and he wanted to be ready when it kicked off.

Suddenly, far too suddenly for Crowley to react, it did.

Two women were passing in front of the shop sharing one umbrella, but as they came into Guziel's range they started fighting. First it was shouting, then a confrontation, and then –

Aziraphale's and Laradiri's heads snapped around as Guziel effortlessly possessed one of the women, forcing her to punch her companion hard in the face.

Crowley was moving at the speed of thought. He wasn't a priest or an angel, he couldn't just drive Guziel out with a command – but he could shove the other demon out from the inside via a quick possession of his own, then vacate himself. The moment the woman was in control of herself again, she burst into remorseful tears and hared up the street to the church.

Aziraphale was outside just as quickly. The punch had been a nose-breakingly hard one but he healed it without her even realizing the extent of her injury, covering it all with a flow of words offering to take her inside and give her tea. When she refused, he busied himself with miracling up a cab, planting silent thoughts to consider future forgiveness for her friend.

Crowley grabbed Guziel and dragged him back inside the shop, snapping his fingers to stop Mr. Solomons in time so he wouldn't notice. Once there, he threw the other demon up against a wall. 

"Flames, Guziel! I can’t believe you were that ssstupid after everything I taught you! You can’t do anything that interferesss with their free will! If you jussst MAKE them sssin, all they have to do is repent and there’sss another sssoul you’ve lossst." Crowley gestured to the church up the street from the shop. "You’ll never have her for Hell now."

"It’s the girlfriend I was after," Guziel sulked. "Only your sodding angel’s got her now."

"Well there’s another lessson for you. Read the room. Don’t try to collect sssoulsss right in front of angelsss. They tend to get pisssy about it."

"Maybe," Guziel snapped, "someone oughta do something about all these angels. Maybe I’m the one to do it if you’re too soft."

Crowley went very, very still. Then he asked with a bright smile, "Willing to fight the next war against Heaven right now? Here?" He smiled even more toothily. "All. On. Your. Own?"

"I’m just sayin’-"

Crowley dropped the smile. "I’m just saying that I have access to enough holy water to melt all of Hell and you know I’m not afraid to use it, Guziel. It’s time for you to go and never return."

"Here, take this!"

Laradiri had been standing to one side, feeling useless, fretting that they had missed some divine cue for action. When Crowley the Immune had mentioned holy water Laradiri almost thanked him for giving them something to do. Something just miracled up wouldn’t be as strong as water that had been officially blessed, but it would certainly still damage a demon.

With a heart full of the best of intentions, Laradiri grabbed a glass out of thin air and shoved it towards Crowley The Immune so fast that it slopped.

Crowley didn’t take it and pour it on Guziel.

Crowley snapped "SHIT!" and jumped back out of range.

Laradiri was still holding out the glass in confusion when the swarm of demons appeared and dragged Crowley away in a burst of brimstone.

-

There wasn’t even the pretense of a trial this time. There wasn’t even gloating, not at first. One moment Crowley was standing in the bookstore-turned-library; the next he was in Hell, wings forced out, being held down spread-eagle by an entire battalion of demons. Still, being Crowley, he started to bluff.

"Hey, guys, long time no see! You’ll nevAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" He felt the pain lancing through his wing’s elbow joint before he heard the impact of the hammer driving the spike down. Crowley twisted frantically, willing to sacrifice a wing if he could just get free, it wasn’t like demons could fly anyway, tried to burst into his component atoms, tried to turn into a snake, anything…

Hell had a lot of experience preventing people from avoiding torture. Crowley stayed human-shaped. His wings stayed out.

They hammered the next spike through the opposite arm wrist to stop him from thrashing so much.

Each joint was spiked separately, drawing the torture out, making sure he was acutely aware of every single blow. When they were finally done and Crowley’s screams and threats had been reduced to agonized whimpers, Beezlebub stepped up to the table where he was pinned, smiled ever so slightly, and spat hellfire straight into his face. Physically it felt good. Emotionally Crowley despaired, knowing that Heaven and Hell had figured out their swap.

Making sure he was watching, she pulled out her phone, flipped it open, dialed, and said two words. "They szwitched."

On the other end a deep voice asked, "You sure?"

Beezlebub spat hellfire into Crowley’s face again. "Yesz."

-

"You heard her," Gabriel said, putting his phone back in his pocket. "Go get that loser. We’re going to kill him properly this time."

-

Laradiri was starting to panic. All they wanted to do was help and something had gone horribly, horribly wrong and it was all their fault and they weren’t even sure why. Everyone knew that Crowley was immune to holy water! Aziraphale – he’d know what to do! Laradiri set down the glass and rushed out into the street to catch their fellow angel.

They saw a cluster of people surrounding Aziraphale. No, not people – angels. Michael had her fingers twisted into his hair, wrenching back his head. Uriel pulled his coat off his shoulders, pinning his arms, preventing him from defending himself as Sandalphon punched him in the stomach.

Laradiri started running forward as streaks of celestial light headed Heavenward.

All that remained was Aziraphale’s ancient coat, crumpled on the pavement, soaking up filth from a puddle.

-

No sooner had they rematerialized in Heaven than Sandalphon gut-punched Aziraphale hard enough to drop him to the floor. Aziraphale’s wings burst out, fluttering to try to regain his balance, until Uriel stood on one to hold him down.

"Check that we’ve got the right traitor," Gabriel ordered in a bored voice.

"Gladly!" Sandalphon knelt on Aziraphale’s other wing, reaching for the first primary. Aziraphale’s spluttered protests turned into a howl as Sandalphon worked it out, taking his time, pulling slowly, twisting it back and forth until it finally ripped free.

"Test it!"

Sandalphon held the feather out at arm’s length, and now Aziraphale noticed a demon standing quietly off to one side. Michael was next to them, holding her sword on the demon, just in case. The demon looked at her and she nodded.

The demon spat a tiny bit of hellfire at the tip of the feather, far away from Sandalphon. The tip vanished into ash, the black of damnation rapidly soaking along the white until it finally faded to gray. The contamination stopped well short of Sandalphon’s fingers, but he dropped it rapidly all the same.

"It is the rogue angel," Uriel said.

"Do what you want to," Gabriel replied, turning to leave. "Then let him sit and contemplate the price he’ll pay for his rebellion."

"Y’know," the demon said with an unholy smile, "Last time I didn’t get to punch an angel."

"Let’s make extra sure that’s what we got, then" Sandalphon said, matching their smile, reaching for a blood feather this time.

Aziraphale scrabbled to get up, to get away, but Sandalphon and Uriel were too much for him. "Think about what you’re doing!" he begged. "I _am_ an angel! You’re fighting a fellow member of God’s Army, you’re hurting one of your own kind! That’s how angels Fall, SandaAAAAAHHHHH!"

Sandalphon took even more time pulling out this feather. "Stop and think!" Aziraphale begged again as he reached for a third. "Angel fighting angel is forbidden by the Lord Herself!"

"You stop, Fallen one," Uriel ordered, backing it up with a kick to the face.

Aziraphale heard the demon give a faint cheer. "This definitely isn’t the same guy!"

Then the demon was right there, choking him with the stench of evil, pulling hair out as Sandalphon pulled more feathers. Uriel kicked him again and then Aziraphale lost track of who was abusing him or how they were doing it, falling gratefully into unconsciousness.

-

Crowley was on display just like all those bugs on pins in museums and collections on Earth, only he was still alive and twitching as demons and the damned filed past for a good sneer. There was always a punch or a scratch or a lash – never hellfire, hellfire was healing for demons – when fellow demons passed. That was bad, but the damned themselves were worse. Humans had always had more inventive imagination than all of Hell, and the damned strove to outdo each other in their one chance to torture one of the beings that tortured them. Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw some brighter demons taking notes.

So when the dark haired woman in the ancient dress stumbled up, leaning near his ear, Crowley merely wondered if she was going to spit on him or try to bite another piece of ear off.

She did neither. "Think upon thy love," she whispered. "Think unceasing upon thy love, t’will be thy rescue." Crowley stopped struggling, confused. "Know ye this, creature of Hell yet also agent of Heaven: the time shall cometh that thy own angel speaks of thoughts ne’er voiced. At that time, ye shall maketh his sword to flame and he shall bless thy sword also. Then ye shall rise as ye have not risen for many a while."

Crowley wanted to blink, but that ability was gone. "What in Hea- what in Hel- WHAT was THAT?"

"That’s enough, witch! Move along!" the demon herding her shouted. He grabbed for her hair but she moved at the last second and he grabbed only air.

"Agnes Nutter?" Crowley whispered.

"Aye."

Crowley had more questions, he always had questions, but this time the demon managed to herd her past although his attempts to whip her along were no more effective than trying to grab her had been.

The whip was used very effectively on Crowley, however.

-

When Crowley smelled an angel, he wanted to vomit. Considering how many different bodily fluids had been thrown on him it wouldn’t make much of a difference to _him_ , but the only thing that had been keeping him sane was the hope that Aziraphale had avoided Heaven’s revenge squad. Nothing that Hell could throw at him, nothing, would be worse than seeing Aziraphale in torment – oh, wait, no, one thing would be worse. One thing haunted Crowley’s nightmares worse than even the 14th Century:

Aziraphale Falling.

So when Michael approached him Crowley was so relieved to look up at that sanctimonious wanker that for a moment he didn’t even feel pain.

"Hang it." Beezlebub ordered. "Let him szee."

"Taking orders from Lord Beezlebub?" Crowley asked as Michael fixed something to a rope that suddenly appeared dangling near his waist. "Lo, how the mighty have… Fallen. Brought me another towel? I’d like to clean up a bit."

Michael sneered at him. "I’m going to enjoy watching this, demon." She leaned near his head, wrinkling her holy nose at the stench of the unholy things poured on him, whispering "Ligur was a friend of mine, from Before." She batted at the thing, which looked, to Crowley’s dazed confusion, like some sort of indoor plant drip waterer now wildly swinging over him from head to foot. "This is for Ligur, _worm_!"

The first drop hit him and Crowley screamed, every muscle pulling agonizingly against the stakes, as a part of his skin bubbled away. Holy water! And not just a dunking that would dissolve him quickly – no, this annihilation would be drip by drip, tiny burn by tiny burn, until there was so much damage that his being finally melted.

Beezlebub smiled coldly. "Do not let it be said Hell has no merczy, Crowley. Michael also brought you thesze." She held out a fistful of huge, burned feathers. "I know you know what they are. Tell me."

Crowley didn’t want to answer. If he opened his mouth, he might start screaming, might start begging. It was all he could do to not keep screaming as the holy water continued to drip on him. There was no pattern to it, no regularity that allowed him to brace himself, just the wildly swinging apparatus hitting him on random body parts at random times. He bared his teeth instead.

Michael unexpectedly grabbed the dripper before his face got hit, holding it steady, stoppered with a holy finger. "Tell," the angel ordered.

Reluctantly he replied "Feathersss from an angel’sss wingsss." Then, because he was still Crowley, because he suspected whose feathers those really were, he added "Didn’t know you were kinky enough to let sssomeone do that to you, Michael. Did you get off?"

She let go of the dripper, setting it dribbling an agonizing trail from throat to crotch before she slapped him hard with a holy water-wet hand.

"Leave his eyesz," Beezlebub ordered. "He’ll want to look at thesze. Dagon, tie them up in front of his facze."

Unable to blink, unable to free himself, Crowley stared at the feathers, trying to analyze everything about them. Primaries. Primary coverts. Even alulas. Roughly 10 inches of the tip of an angel’s left wing had been plucked naked, like a slaughtered chicken. The angel wouldn’t be able to fly anymore. Nevermore if the hellfire that singed the tips had been allowed to destroy the exposed flesh. Each quill end was fractured and frayed in different directions: they hadn’t been pulled all at once. Whoever did it pulled them one by one, causing as much pain as possible. Blood was splattered on all of them, not just the plucked blood feathers, as if it had sprayed from other injuries.

He didn’t want to know which angel they came from.

He was terrified to know which angel they came from.

He _had_ to know which angel they came from.

Crowley tried to take a deep sniff, searching beyond the stench of hellfire and singed feathers, beyond the clinging blood to catch the angel’s personal scent. But his nose had been too thoroughly and repeatedly broken, so he flicked his tongue out to be sure, ignoring the mocking laughter around him.

Aziraphale.

They’d caught Aziraphale and they were torturing him.

He turned his head as much as he could to glare into Michael’s eyes. "Auditioning? We’ve always got a ssspot for torturerssss in Hell, you’ll fit right in. Beezlebub offer you better pay?"

Crowley wasn’t entirely clear on what it was Michael did next, only that it was exquisitely painful, seemed to go on forever, and he would not be given the relief of blacking out.

-

Later, when it was over and Michael had left, Crowley shook the tears out of his eyes as well as he could and set to staring at the feathers, tuning out the rabble around him, the knowledge of how many of his insides were now on the outside, and as much of the pain as possible. He wasn’t looking at the whole feathers, not anywhere he’d be reminded of his failure to protect his best, his only friend. He stared only at the flashes of brilliant if blood-speckled white between the shattered quills and the hellfire taint: proof that Aziraphale, his beautiful Aziraphale, his kind, oblivious, loving, stubborn, wonderful, embarrassing, compassionate, venial, soft, giving and forgiving angel hadn’t lost his celestial nature. That wing had sheltered Crowley on Eden’s wall. Any other angel would have run him through on sight with the flaming sword they would never dream of giving away. Only Aziraphale had the empathy, the compassion for frightened humans in the face of God’s anger. Only Aziraphale had the kindness to chat, even with an enemy. Only Aziraphale had the basic courtesy to offer shelter from the new rain.

God must be very, very angry at Aziraphale right now, to allow this to happen to him.

But still not angry enough to cast him from Heaven.

 _Don’t – ahhh! --let him Fall, Lord,_ he thought desperately between winces of agony. _If there – ngh- is any mercy left in You, d- ow ow ow d- d-on’t let Aziraphale Fall. Accept my AUGH t-t-torment and execution in atonement for any sins he has committed; they’re all my fault anyway, I tempted him. He’s been faithful to You, Lord. Mid-level management, well, they’re all – nonononono_ (Crowley cut off that line of thought quickly. God knew – literally – that what he was about to think was true, but you hardly convince someone to do you a favor when you insult their favorite children.) _Hold Your child AHHHHHHHH Ah-Ah-Ah-ziraphale in Your hand, Lord. Please grant him Your mercy and NGHH if he must … he must…_ Crowley could bear the pain better than he could bear to think the word _… must… end… Please make it quick and co-co-comf-f-fort him to the last, as he GUH has brought Your comfort to so many of Your humans. Please!_

Then, because no one like a fallen angel knows how pointless prayer is in Hell, Crowley tried to bury himself in memories. The taste of oysters in Rome. The flirty relief on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley came to his French jail cell. Agnes was right; the more he focused on Aziraphale, the less aware he was of anything else, including his own agony. Satan grant that the holy water not take both his eyes, to allow him to see his angel until his end.

-

God was constantly surrounded by sound: the music of the spheres, prayers, petitions, reruns of The Sound of Music, angels singing "Holy, Holy, Holy." Much of it came from Earth, and of course She had created entire Heavenly Choirs, but the vast majority of it, most of the prayers at least - those came from Hell of all places. Fallen angels and human sinners alike begged constantly for forgiveness. Sinners – and sometimes demons - swearing they were there by mistake. Most of all, sinners offering anything, anything at all, including the souls of their innocent loved ones, just to end the pain for even a short reprieve.

But a demon in torment praying a completely unselfish prayer on behalf of an angel?

That was new.

_Your prayer is granted, Crowley. Aziraphale will not be cast down by Me._

_But I cannot comfort you with the knowledge of what he faces in Heaven._


	6. As Below, So Above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If a vengeful Heaven had come for him, a furious Hell must have risen up to punish their demon for his many kindnesses. But maybe, just maybe there was something Aziraphale could do for his only friend, here, now, in his final moments.

Aziraphale blinked slowly back to consciousness, taking a mental inventory. Everywhere hurt. His right wing felt fuzzy, as if it was partially asleep. The left one, the plucked one, was numb and hot in a way that suggested numb and hot were the good options. It seemed to be dragging on the floor. Several of his corporation's ribs appeared to be broken; all of his fingers had been. Aziraphale smelled and tasted blood; there seemed to be a lot of it on his upper lip, and it was a good thing he didn’t actually need to breathe because he was having trouble doing it through his nose. Both lips were split and as he slowly raised his head, one of his eyes refused to open, feeling puffed shut. Also, one side of his body was uncomfortably hot.

He looked around with his working eye. He was alone in a cold, sterile room of Heaven. Odd, that, how there was no beauty in Heaven, just blankness. To one side, terrifyingly close, was a pillar of hellfire. Directly ahead of him was the spinning Earth. Aziraphale tried to get up and go to it, only to find that he was tied into a chair.

More ropes had been tied to the chair legs closest to the hellfire.

Crowley had told him that Gabriel had ordered him to voluntarily walk into hellfire. (Well… if you interpreted "told" as "suddenly gasped it out in the middle of the night after a nightmare, sobbing and clinging desperately to Aziraphale." Neither one of them particularly liked to think of the horrible end the other would have been put to by their own sides.) This time there would be nothing voluntary - two angels could easily pull him, chair and all, into the pillar of hellfire while standing safely out of range.

Well. This was it. At least he could take comfort in the knowledge that Crowley was safe back on Earth. He would be, wouldn’t he? That wily serpent had spent centuries avoiding him, millennia dodging the worst of Hell. He’d be fine.

Wouldn’t he? Poor Crowley, he would be so lonely though…

Aziraphale stared at the slowly turning Earth, cool and blue and white and beautiful. If he had to be obliterated, well, until then he could seek comfort in his favorite part of God’s Creation.

It was God’s Creation, wasn’t it? Angels had created much on divine orders, but not this little blue globe nor one thing upon it. Aziraphale gazed at it, at the world he had so irregularly tried to guide and protect and enjoy and love and love and love, surprised to find how the peaceful sight of his real home soothed his fears. When they pulled him into the hellfire he would look at it and defiantly love everything it had to offer until his eyes and heart burned away.

"Poor planet," he whispered to it. "I hope whoever She sends next will love you too. They should. They should revel in your wonders. Angels were created to love Her and all Her works, not destroy them. Especially not destroy them as collateral damage."

-

_Oh, well done. You are the only one to even think of that. I shall reward you for this, Aziraphale._

-

Aziraphale sighed. "I wonder what the Ineffable Plan really was. I hope we got it right."

And suddenly… he knew. It just burst upon him, bright and beautiful and so detailed that he knew, just knew at his celestial core that it was so perfect that it could only come from God. He smiled at the world then, fondly, knowing that it would be all right.

That was the important thing, that the world be all right, no matter what happened to him, or even what happened to Crowley. After the Fall, after the Flood, after millennia of human horrors, he and Crowley, more than anyone - possibly more than Lucifer himself - knew how disposable Her Creations could be to Her. He and Crowley would be just another ineffable sacrifice.

Aziraphale knew his future now. He would die here, really die, briefly flaming like the sword God Herself had given him. He was sorry for it, but he wasn't afraid anymore. 

Loyal to the last, Aziraphale tipped his head up as much as possible, calling "Thank you, Lord, for showing me this before I… I must… leave."

He went back to contemplating the planet again, a small, nostalgic smile pulling the scabs on his lips open and making them bleed again, not that Aziraphale noticed as he thought over all of the promises and ramifications of the Ineffable Plan.

After a while, he said with infinite sorrow "Then that would mean… Oh. Oh! _Poor_ Crowley!"

Poor Crowley indeed. If a vengeful Heaven had come for him, a furious Hell must have risen up to punish their demon for his many kindnesses. But maybe, just maybe there was something Aziraphale could do for his only friend, here, now, in his final moments. It was weak and it was human but it was all he could think of; Aziraphale might be intelligent, but Crowley had always been the clever one.

With a last look at the serene Earth, Aziraphale bowed his head and started to pray.

"Lord, I know that I have been weak and fallible in following Your commands. I know that it is right in Your eyes that I be punished. I accept my fate and shall end my existence doing what You created me to do, giving unceasing praise and thanksgiving for You and Your works. Thank You for Your grace in letting me know Your Plan. Thank You for Your mercy and forgiveness, without which I should have Fallen many times for my many sins, which are mine and mine alone. Thank You for the opportunity to walk Your wonderful world and watch it grow. Most of all, thank You, thank You, thank You, Lord, for the priceless gift of knowing _him_. If You cannot forgive Crowley’s rebellion, might You still hold him in Your hand and bring him through his trials? Even Fallen he has worked many blessings, Lord, he has obeyed your commandment to love humanity, he has so much true gentleness, compassion, and love in him. He has protected Your Creation better than I, he has faithfully fulfilled his part in Your Ineffable Plan…"

-

_Faith in the face of destruction. Love and loyalty to the point of praying unselfishly for a demon in the very halls of Heaven. I am so proud of you, Aziraphale. So proud._

-

"Are you _praying_?" Uriel suddenly asked from behind Aziraphale, making it sound like she had walked in on a shameful and disgusting act.

Gabriel scoffed. "Angels don’t pray."

"That’s right," Sandalphon said, ever the suckup. "If you were a _real_ angel, you’d know the proper rituals to talk directly to God."

"I do know them," Aziraphale said, annoyed at having to point out the obvious. "I can hardly perform them in this state, can I?"

"You’re not going to be performing anything soon," Gabriel said. "Grab the ropes, you two."

"And then what?"

Gabriel stared at Aziraphale in confusion. "And then what, what? You die, we get on with the great war, we win. Simple."

"Are you going to destroy the Earth?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Probably. Who cares? I just care about winning this war for the right team."

"God cares!"

Michael was shocked. "YOU think you speak for God? You Fallen angel, you cowardly Principality who refused to lead his regiment, you dare speak for GOD?"

"In this case, yes!" Aziraphale snapped. "She assigned me to Earth to protect it and protect it I shall! You must listen to me!"

"Never anything worth listening to," Sandalphon muttered.

"Gabriel! You can’t just destroy Earth on a whim! I KNOW THE PLAN!"

"Sure you do. Only you can’t tell us because it’s too ‘ineffable’," he actually used sarcastic finger quotes, "to put into words. Okay, Sandalphon, you grab that rope, Uriel, you get this one…"

"THIS IS IMPORTANT!" Aziraphale howled. Ugh, it was impossible, he always had to crane his neck when he was standing next to Gabriel, he’d never be taken seriously shouting from a chair like this. There was a reason why he was sitting here, Aziraphale had some dim memory there was a very good reason, a terrifying reason, but whatever the reason was, it wasn’t as important as performing his duties to God and Earth by getting through to the other angels right this very minute before they did something that was probably suicidally stupid. The Almighty would be _so_ angry and it would be all Aziraphale’s fault for not stopping it.

So Aziraphale stood up.

There was a shivery moment from the sensation of having moved through cobwebs as he did so. Good Lord, had he been sitting long enough for spiders to cover him in webs? It had been a long time since he’d done that. Crowley would laugh himself sick when he found out.

Gabriel, Sandalphon, Michael, and Uriel were staring at him in horror. Well, that was to be expected; being covered in cobwebs was rather gross and untidy for the clean halls of Heaven. And what was with his wings flopping around? Aziraphale shook them out – gently, in fear of hurting spiders, they were God’s creatures too (if ones he personally didn’t appreciate much) – and tucked his wings neatly up. His hands felt wrong too, so he shook his fingers out as well and clasped them in front of himself.

He noticed a bright glow suffusing the room; it must be coming from the Earth, the beautiful blue Earth. Aziraphale looked at the globe and felt such a wave of love and protectiveness for it that he couldn’t resist taking just a moment to mantle his wings around it, his primaries almost touching on the other side, leaving him in a cocoon with his beloved home. Something about those primaries tickled the back of his memory, but it was unimportant now, nothing was as important as this lovely, loved planet. He had been assigned to guard and guide it, and guard it he would. Happily smiling, he delivered his message to the globe. "The Ineffable Plan can be spoken in six simple words."

"You can speak the Ineffable Plan? You _dare_?" Michael, always so controlled, was openly appalled.

Sighing, Aziraphale tucked his wings away again and turned to look at the others.

"The Plan is this: For God So Loved The World."

Gabriel scoffed. "For God so loved the world He gave His only begotten son, blah, blah, I know, I was there. Let me tell you, Luke cleaned that story up a LOT. Ugh. Humans."

"That’s Her Creation you’re insulting, Gabriel." Aziraphale wondered why he’d been so intimidated by Gabriel for so long; now the archangel just seemed weak and foolish to him, standing there in the bright warm light with his mouth open. " _Her_ Creation. Just like we are Her creations. Gabriel, can’t you see? Attacking the Earth is just as wrong as attacking a fellow angel."

"Some angels need to be punished over their neglected duties," Sandalphon snapped, but he sounded surprisingly unsure.

"Excellent point," Aziraphale replied serenely. "Gabriel, do you know your duties?"

"Of course I-"

"To the humans?" Aziraphale pointed to the Earth and Gabriel fell silent. "Gabriel, the strength of God. The trumpeter. Angel of the Annunciation. Angel of revelation. Guardian angel of the nation of Israel. How can you guard Israel if you so casually intend to destroy their whole world? Orthodox and Catholic Christians feast to you, celebrate you. Is that just, Prince of Justice? Is that merciful, Angel of Mercy? Is that a truly meet blessing, author of the hymn to Theotokos?"

Aziraphale stopped staring his boss down and turned back to the spinning Earth. "Can you show him?" he asked. "Show him how many people, how many ‘ugh, humans’ call this archangel their patron saint?" Aziraphale didn’t actually know what he was doing, be it miracle or ritual, but somehow the glow suffusing the room told him how to move his hands, what to say. "Reveal to us the messengers. The communicators, the radio and television broadcasters. Postal and parcel deliverers. The clerks, the diplomats, everyone who should be protected by Gabriel."

Where Aziraphale’s hand moved over the globe pinpricks of light followed, by the dozen, by the hundred, by the thousand and finally by the million. Aziraphale wondered for a moment which tiny light had delivered and removed the tools of the Horsemen. "Look at them, Gabriel," Aziraphale ordered. "Look at the lives God Almighty Herself has put into your hands. All these you would destroy?"

"I-"

Aziraphale wasn’t listening, turning on the next archangel. "And you, Michael! Michael Who Is As God, will you destroy God’s Creation? Speaker to Abraham! Protector of Isaac and Jacob! Angel of Healing! Patron saint of chivalry! How chivalrous is it to turn them all into casualties of your war? Angel of righteousness – how right is it to annihilate them? They feast to you. They praise you. They pray to you, to _you_ , Michael!"

With another wave of Aziraphale’s hand, voices rose from the spinning Earth. Starting as a susurration of multiple languages, it strengthened and resolved, echoing through Heaven’s halls.

"Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle that we might not perish at the dreadful judgement…"

"Listen to them. Listen to them! They’re begging for their lives, and they don’t even realize it!" Aziraphale waved his hand again.

"St. Michael the Archangel, illustrious leader of the Heavenly army, defend us in the battle against principalities and power, against the rulers of the world of darkness and the spirit of wickedness in high places…"

"Sounds like they’re talking about you, wicked principality," Sandalphon tried to sneer, but Aziraphale just turned up the sound.

"…Come to the rescue of mankind, whom God has made in His own image and likeness and purchased from Satan’s tyranny at so great a price. Holy church venerates you as her patron and guardian. The Lord has entrusted to you the task of leading the souls of the redeemed to Heavenly blessedness…"

"Michael!" Aziraphale urged, "You are the angel of repentance! It is not too late to repent of planning to casually destroy God’s! Own! Creation!" He spread his wings protectively between the spinning planet and his fellow angels. "You want to destroy this, you want to destroy God’s work, the humans the Almighty Herself placed under your protection, and for what? For WHAT? A dick-swinging contest with Hell? _You don’t even have dicks!_ "

He stamped to make his point and was surprised to hear a metallic clank and jingle. Aziraphale looked down, amazed at the full suit of armor and chainmail he was unexpectedly wearing. "Good Lord! Where did this come from?"

Michael pointed upwards just as the bright glow that had suffused the room winked out. Aziraphale saw the column of hellfire, suddenly remembered exactly why he’d been sitting down and what condition he’d just been in, and swallowed hard.

"It's the Armor of Righteousness," Uriel whispered.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "I trust," he said far more calmly than he felt, "that this will be the end of the whole Armageddon on Earth matter. None of you have ever respected me before, but understand this now: I am the Divine Protector of the Earth, assigned by God Almighty." He took another deep breath and finally said what he'd dreamed of saying since Adam turned eleven.

"I do not answer to any of you any longer."

"You can’t just give yourself a rank-" Sandalphon started, but Gabriel stamped hard on his foot.

Aziraphale glared at Sandalphon. "The Almighty Herself armed me with a flaming sword to protect the Earth. The Almighty Herself assigned me to the Eastern Gate of Eden. The Almighty Herself gave me the insight into the Ineffable Plan. The Almighty Herself just granted me healing from your attacks and clothed me in this armor. Only the Almighty Herself gives me orders from now on, and Heaven itself will answer to me if angels harm the Earth without God’s own approval. Do you understand?"

Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel nodded in unison.

"Well then," Aziraphale said, wishing that he could reach his bow tie to straighten it. He’d always found that soothing, and he could use some soothing right now. "I guess there’s only one thing left to do. Michael!"

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a request.

It was an order.

"Where is my partner? Where is the Diabolical Protector of Earth?"

Warily, nervously, Michael silently pointed downwards.


	7. To March Into Hell For A Heavenly Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aziraphale comes for Crowley!"
> 
> "He'sz about to be too late."

Beezlebub’s mobile phone, like all the equipment in Hell, was outdated and didn’t work very well, so when it belatedly announced a voicemail the message was garbled.

"Beez… gone insane… just give… he’ll probably go."

"Wonder what that was all about?" Dagon asked.

"I don’t know," Beezlebub answered, flipping her phone open to painstakingly and irritatedly compose a text by punching each button multiple times. Before she’d managed to finish and send it, one arrived.

_Didn’t you get my message? Aziraphale comes for Crowley._

"I'll bet he does. They have been spending nights together," Dagon muttered. Beezlebub shuddered at the mental image, abandoned the current laborious text, and started another.

_Cn kil A 4 u_

_Suggest you not try; the Almighty seems to favor his insanity. He’s dubbed himself & Crowley "Protectors of Earth." If you just give him Crowley, they’ll probably go back to Earth and leave us both alone._

Beezebub and Dagon looked to the alcove just off Beezlebub’s throne room, where the slow motion execution was on display.

 _He'sz abt 2 b 2 late_.

-

_Wiggles. So many wiggles. Whole v’cab’lry of ‘em. ‘M a snake ‘n’ he wiggles more’n me…_

Nothing was keeping out the pain anymore. The shaking was unstoppable now, as was his whimpering; Crowley didn’t have enough strength left to even cry. But Crowley could always work hard if he felt the need to and right now he’d set himself a vital task – to keep the memory of the probably now-obliterated Aziraphale alive in the universe as long as possible.

It wasn’t going to be much longer, though. Six, maybe seven more drops of holy water, Crowley knew, and it would be over. 

_drip_

The "I’m getting settled comfortably" wiggle.

_drip_

The "I’ve just eaten something delicious" wiggle.

_drip_

The "I’ve got an idea" wiggle.

_drip_

The "Thank you" wiggle.

_drip_

The "I’ve just done something so mildly naughty a junior demon would be ashamed to admit it but I think I’m an evil little stinker" wiggle.

_dr--_

A huge barrier of white feathers snapped open between Crowley and the holy water.

-

Aziraphale expected to be attacked as soon as he showed up and he had been, although not in the manner he'd expected. At first there was just a press of damned souls for him to wade through, Hell accurately guessing that he'd be unwilling to add to their torment by simply cutting through them.

The second wave had been Crowley lookalikes, all calling him pet names – "darling," "Zira," "sssweetheart." It had all been quite uncomfortable; Aziraphale had not realized until then just how painstakingly literal the real Crowley had always been. He’d either used Aziraphale’s full name or the noun "angel." But he would have had to, wouldn’t he? Even as they became friends, they couldn’t possibly let their sides know about that friendship. So, although Crowley had managed to turn Aziraphale’s proper noun into a form of endearment, there was none of the sort of thing these demons seemed to take for granted.

They also took for granted that he would be either shocked or tempted by sex, as the lookalikes tried to fondle or stroke him as he pushed through their ranks. It was another mistake. Aziraphale didn't have a sex drive – why would he, when angels didn't have genders, nor were they needed to beget other angels? But he had seen human passions for millennia and he wasn't adverse to that particular pleasure of the corporeal flesh when Crowley suggested it.

But the pleasures Crowley used to truly tempt Aziraphale – those were always, always sensual, not sexual. Food. Wine. Music. Or sometimes not even that – how many books had Crowley saved for him? It was Aziraphale’s bookselling contacts that had let him know that a local university was about to close its doors and sell off its library of rare, old books – but it was Crowley who had had the imagination to envision the bookshop be turned into a reference library, where all those books would stay safely with them. And it was Crowley who had the foresight – no, the empathy – to name the new library Knowledge Shop, knowing that after all these centuries Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to stop calling it his shop.

Crowley knew him in so much more than a mere physical sense!

And Aziraphale knew him just as thoroughly. He knew that Crowley had so many attributes that were in short supply in Hell. 

Imagination.

Gentleness.

Compassion.

True, sincere love. 

Aziraphale, creature of love, could feel it even here; a weak and distant beacon cutting through the emotional roil around him. The lookalikes may be promising him pleasure, but they could not promise him love. Nor could they hide their underlying anger, fear, pride, hatred. 

Aziraphale followed the trail, pushing through the crowds of counterfeit Crowleys, through the maze of rotting hallways and crumbling rooms, into the surprisingly empty room where the show trial had been. The "You Don’t Matter" sign was still up on the wall; Aziraphale had been horrified to see it when he’d impersonated Crowley, but since then had often thought about how it ought to be hanging in Heaven as well. He and Crowley had worked hard for their respective sides, they really had – and yet neither one of them had ever actually mattered.

Stopping to contemplate the sign had been a mistake; the flickering sensation of Crowley’s love was fading rapidly, growing so dim that Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had been moved to another circle of Hell out of his reach.

Confused, he stopped to think in an alcove just off the trial setting. There was a… well, a twitching unidentifiable mess there, with some form of torture device swinging over it. Without consciously thinking about it, Aziraphale did a little thwarting of Hell’s torments with his left wing.

The falling water felt surprisingly refreshing against his restored feathers. Michael must have brought holy water to Hell again, but what an unspeakable torment this dribbling would be, not even a clean, relatively quick dunking! What demon made Hell so angry that they would…

What…

Demon…

Just as Aziraphale froze in horrified realization, the moaning underneath his wing resolved into a weak whisper.

"…an… gel…"

He hadn’t even recognized Crowley!

-

It takes two things to work a miracle: the ability to visualize an outcome and the raw power to force the universe itself to conform to that vision. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and balled his fists, marshalling every scrap of strength he had. He _refused_ to live in a universe where this could EVER happen to Crowley! He would not _PERMIT_ anyone to do this to Crowley!

The office building rocked from infernal foundation to celestial rooftop as Aziraphale violently rejected Hell’s reality and substituted his own.

-

When Aziraphale peeked under his wing, a very free, very whole, very confused Crowley was staring up at him. "Wha-?"

"No time, dear boy. Can you walk?" Aziraphale was trying to help him up when he heard Beezlebub’s voice behind him.

"NOW!"

While Aziraphale had been distracted, the throne room had filled with demons. On cue they all spat or threw fire at once.

The alcove turned into a furnace of hellfire. 

There was a red glow rivalling the heart of the sun for over a full minute before flickering down. In the center of the ashes something glowed red.

Something with wings.

Something that said "Thanksss, that hit the ssspot nicsssly."

As the hellfire turned to embers and ash, all that could be seen at first was a black, feathery cocoon balancing on a snake’s tail. Then the half-transformed Crowley unwrapped his tail from Aziraphale’s feet, opening his wings to show the unharmed angel cradled safely against his chest.

"Well, so much for that," Aziraphale said, standing up and reaching for his throat as if to adjust a non-existent bow tie on his chain mail. "I have who I want. Let us go and there won’t be any trouble."

"Thisz isz Hell," Beezlebub intoned. "We’re nothing but trouble. CHARGE!"

Swords, lances, and daggers appeared. A full rank of demons charged towards the alcove.

Aziraphale made a quick, downward snap of his fingers, flaring his wings protectively over Crowley. The holy water torture device swung outwards at the fullest extent of its rope, shattering like a grenade in the faces of the first row of demons.

The second row, stepping over their fallen comrades, were pummeled with wet white wings. A swan’s wings are strong enough to break avian, even human bones. God modeled them off of angel wings, which can crush an opponent – and that’s before the celestial advantage of being soaked in holy water.

The remaining demons stopped advancing; Beezlebub stood on her throne to glare at Aziraphale and Crowley over their shoulders. "There isz no eszcape. We have you outnumbered. You have no weaponsz."

"Oh," Aziraphale said primly. "I very much disagree." He reached out to his sides, miraculously pulling a pair of swords out of thin air.

Aziraphale, everyone knew, was soft.

Aziraphale, everyone knew, had refused to lead his platoon at Armageddon.

Aziraphale, everyone knew, was too fond of books, wine, food and other Earthly things.

Aziraphale, everyone forgot, still had been an experienced warrior.

Before Beezlebub could blink, the intervening rows of demons fell to blade and wing and Aziraphale was right there in front of her. As he moved, Crowley could be glimpsed right behind him, covering his back by waving a pair of black feathers. At first Beezlebub couldn’t understand how Crowley’s own battered, plucked feathers could be any kind of threat, but as Aziraphale stopped, Crowley silently held up a bubbling, oozing shaft. He’d mopped up as much holy water as possible, blinding and burning whatever demons Aziraphale missed with the burning water and his own dissolving goo.

"We’ll be going now," Aziraphale said quietly. "I’m not here to fight you, Beezlebub, just to reclaim my partner."

"Partner!" Crowley exclaimed, surprised and pleased.

"He’sz damned. He’sz oursz."

"Not anymore," Aziraphale said calmly.

"There isz no eszcape for either of you!"

"Sorry to contradict the bosss and all that – but you’re not my bosss anymore and we’re leaving," Crowley said. "I’d sssay it’sss been fun, but we both know it hasssn’t. Hold on tight, angel, and don’t open your mouth."

"Wha-"

"What did I JUSSST tell you?"

And then there were just dead and crippled demons and two abandoned divine swords in front of Beezlebub’s throne as they escaped, Crowley dragging Aziraphale upwards through the dirt like the demon he was.


	8. Agnes Ex Machina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Know ye this, creature of Hell yet also agent of Heaven: the time shall cometh that thy own angel speaks of thoughts ne’er voiced. At that time, ye shall maketh his sword to flame and he shall bless thy sword also. Then ye shall rise as ye have not risen for many a while.

There was a sensation of dirt and pressure and motion. Then a long, long burst of cold. Then more dirt and motion, and finally they emerged… somewhere. Aziraphale let go of Crowley, looking around at the blank gray plain and the unfamiliar stars above. His armor creaked as he moved.

"Where are we? Have you taken me to Alpha Centauri after all?"

"No, I just… got us away. From Earth. It’s not over. If you fought your way through Hell, angel, you’d just be restarting the war for them. If we went back to Earth, they might lay waste to it just to get to us. So… I took us away."

"You think we’re going to have to make a final stand? But we don’t have anything to take a stand with."

"We’ve got each other."

"Hmmm." Aziraphale looked up as lightning started to flash across the sky, leaving angels in its wake. Crowley looked down as the ground began to boil, each bubble birthing another demon. Rank after rank they came, until a full battalion of celestial wrath filled the sky and another battalion of infernal fury faced them on the ground.

Two swords, two ordinary, non-miraculous, non-supernatural swords, clattered to their feet.

"You like human things so much," Gabriel sneered down at them. "We’ll let you use them to defend yourselves. Good luck!" Cold laughter from above was matched with jeering laughter from below.

"Well." Aziraphale reached for a sword with a sigh. "At least we get to go in battle. For a while I was rather afraid I’d be forcibly rogered to death by demons like the angel in your statue."

"Hng?"

"Your statue." Aziraphale repeated, handing the second sword to Crowley. "The only statue you own. The one with the demon violently buggering an angel."

"They’re wrestling!"

"Is that what the youth are calling it these days?"

"You… it… muh… why… ngk" All the questions were bottlenecking in Crowley’s mouth, not letting anything coherent through. "You’ve never mentioned it before. You have never _once_ said ANYTHING about that statue! I’ve had it for over a century!"

"Well of course not! You so obviously wanted me to; I wasn’t going to give you that satisfaction! You commissioned it didn’t you? Because you were angry about my not giving you holy water? Or was it because you were drunk?"

"I commissioned it because I wanted it," Crowley grumbled, avoiding the honest answers of "yes," "of course," and "extremely."

Someone shouted "GET ON WITH IT!" It sounded like Beezlebub. Crowley held his hand out to the armies in the universal sign to wait, turning to face Aziraphale. "Why are we even talking about this now?"

"Well, I couldn’t help thinking about it in Hell," Aziraphale sighed, looking down at the sword in his hand. "Although it does seem equally likely that someone from Heaven is going to forcibly stick something unwanted into me soon."

Crowley started laughing. There they were, with the combined forces of Heaven and Hell planning to shish kebab them, bickering as usual. If he had to go, this was the only way he’d want to do it.

Then a stray thought cut his laughter short.

_the time shall cometh that thy own angel speaks of thoughts ne’er voiced…_

"Good old Agnes Nutter," Crowley muttered.

"Oh, did you see her in Hell? I hope she’s well. Considering."

_ye shall maketh his sword to flame…_

"She saved us before and she’s saving us again, angel. We’re forgetting that we’re on our side, we play by our rules. Hold your sword out a moment, will you?"

Aziraphale, obviously confused, obeyed immediately. Crowley spat a tiny bit of hellfire on it, just enough to make the blade catch without endangering Aziraphale’s hand.

"You’re the angel of the Eastern Gate," Crowley reminded him with a smile. "Gotta have a flaming sword."

Aziraphale smiled back, catching on immediately. "Quick, quick, give me yours!" The blessing was hasty and rushed, but the sword took on a blueish tinge, and Crowley could hear muttering from the demonic army.

"She predicted this, did she?" Aziraphale asked.

_…then ye shall rise…_

"Yup. And one more thing too. Hope this works!"

_…then ye shall rise as ye have not risen…_

The demon army was landbound, of course. Fallen angels can’t fly. How could anyone that flies be forced to Fall?

_…then ye shall rise as ye have not risen for many a while…_

Crowley crouched down, kicked upwards, and spread his wings.

-

Fledglings falling from the nest had better stabilization, and Crowley knew he was flapping far too hard. For a moment he came perilously close to face-planting back on the ground below.

But just before he Fell again… he didn’t. Ancient memories and forgotten skills kicked in and he was flying. Flying!

It felt almost like forgiveness. It felt almost like being back in Heaven. And speaking of Heaven…

He heard the rush of Aziraphale’s wings following as he charged upwards, but Crowley wasn’t paying attention to anything below him. His eyes were locked on Gabriel, his mind filled only with the memory of that face sneering, prideful as Satan himself, calling his wonderful Aziraphale stupid, commanding a dedicated, decorated angel of the Lord to be docilely obedient unto agonizing death.

The purple eyes in that holier-than-thou face grew wide. That mouth, no longer sneering, opened to call the attack but before the order could be voiced Crowley spat a column of hellfire straight through the ranks, scattering angels in disarray.

Below him he could hear demons cheering. Fools! Did they think he’d fight for Hell, especially now? He wasn’t even fighting for the Earth. He was fighting for Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone. A demon’s role is to punish, and all Crowley wanted from the bottom of his damned heart was to punish the whole of Heaven. Not for his Fall, but for each and every single time they hurt Aziraphale - and Crowley had made a long, long list over the millennia. The recent torture. The order to commit suicide (an order that Crowley relived far too often in his sleep, lurching awake in cold sweat at how close his angel had come to obliteration – if he wasn’t in colder sweats at the nightmare of watching him writhing and screaming in flames.) For how dismissive and patronizing Gabriel had been at the opening of Aziraphale’s beloved bookshop. For every time, time after time, time and again over 6000 years when Aziraphale had flinched away, shut down, or rejected Crowley not for himself but for fear of angelic displeasure.

Bad angels fell into hellfire and Crowley was here to deliver justice.

-

Crowley was flying! Flying! Aziraphale gaped upwards, momentarily stunned. They had never spoken of it, not once in 6000 years, but Aziraphale had seen the look on Crowley’s face sometimes, when flocks of birds flew overhead. Especially if the birds had black wings.

"Thank You, Lord," Aziraphale whispered, preparing to launch to protect Crowley’s back. "Thank You for restoring his flight."

Then he spread his wings and followed with the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the Almighty would be with them both.

-

Aziraphale would not have been as confident if he knew how very closely She was watching.

God always paid attention when her creations were being Tested.

-

The angels regrouped quickly – so quickly that Crowley barely made it out of their midst with his life. A chasing angel – one Crowley remembered working along side of once, one Crowley remembered as a former friend when they both lived in Heaven - almost cut him down with a flaming sword.

Just before the blow stuck, there was a rush of air and Aziraphale was there, blocking with his own hellfire blade. The two swords hissed and sparked, then the other angel wheeled away, hurling insults in their wake.

"Fall back!" Aziraphale ordered out of the side of his mouth and Crowley obediently glided down below the celestial army. Aziraphale started to follow…

…and was smashed sideways so violently he almost fell out of the air. Crowley was about to dive to his aid, but he noticed the following angels. He twisted in midair, finding himself face to face with Michael and Uriel.

Spitting hellfire into their frightened faces was going to be satisfying every time he got to do it. It really was.

"Wait for my command," Gabriel said above them all, trying to sound confidently bored and not quite managing. "Let Sandalphon take care of business first."

Crowley dared look over his shoulder. Sandalphon, the smitey little wanker, had tried to cannonball Aziraphale out of the sky, but Aziraphale had neither crashed nor dropped the hellfire sword. This posed two problems for Sandalphon, who liked to stun and terrify his opponents.

First, Aziraphale remained in possession of his airborne maneuverability.

Second, Aziraphale still wielded a weapon that terrified Sandalphon.

Crowley looked back at Michael and Uriel. "Thought you’d sneak up from behind and help your sadistic little buddy? Sorry. Not happening."

"That blessed blade can't hurt us," Michael replied.

"Don't need it." Crowley grinned demonically and blew a smoke ring just to watch them flinch.

-

Sandalphon still used the brute force technique he’d used so successfully at Sodom and Gomorrah, full of lunges meant to instill shock and fear in the opponent followed by violent pummeling. Aziraphale, who had lived through six millennia of human violence, including genocide, terrorist attacks, poison gas, and the Blitz, (and who no longer cared a withered fig about Gabriel’s good graces) found it all very old-fashioned and unimpressive.

There would be a pincer movement, though; even in the bookshop Sandalphon had tried that one, standing so that Aziraphale had to leave his back vulnerable to either him or Gabriel. He’d have to trust Crowley to protect him from behind, but he’d been trusting Crowley since they'd first met – and a short rolling dive gave Aziraphale a reassuring glimpse of black wings nearby.

Good old Crowley. Now he could put all his concentration into dealing with one opponent.

That opponent couldn’t seem to grasp that he needed different tactics. Again and again Sandalphon rushed Aziraphale, trying to knock him off his wings. Aziraphale, finally tiring of dodging and worried that Crowley couldn’t keep up with high-speed maneuvers, started meeting each rush by simply pointing his hellfire sword in Sandalphon’s direction, giving him the free choice to either leave off or skewer himself.

That left Sandalphon’s other favorite tactic, which was basically to hack his opponent into gory little pieces meant to terrify onlookers (and the next victims). Aziraphale was privately surprised at how little skill these attacks showed now that Aziraphale himself had spent many male-presenting centuries embedded in cultures where masculinity was judged by the ability to wield various blades with finesse. He parried most of the blows easily, finally ending up with Sandalphon frantically chopping away screaming angry, unhinged insults while Aziraphale calmly held his weapon diagonally in front of his chest as a shield.

"Why! Won’t! You! Fall!" Sandalphon screeched, punctuating each word with another sword blow.

The strikes were starting to push Aziraphale’s sword uncomfortably close to his own chest; he could feel his armor starting to smolder simply from proximity. He strategically retreated, hoping that he was headed towards the edges of the battlefield.

Sandalphon followed, raising his sword once again, wings wide – and, there, buried in the barbs of the lesser coverts, Aziraphale saw. For a tiny, guilty moment he felt relief that it would soon be over.

The next second, horrified at himself, he whispered "Forgive me, Lord."

"No forgiveness here!" Sandalphon screamed.

"You’re not the Almighty," Aziraphale said, suddenly exhausted with all of this. It would be so easy to just let what was happening happen. But deep in his heart Aziraphale knew that he still had a duty, one angel to another. He tried one last time to get through. "Sandalphon. Sandalphon! Attacking a fellow angel is the road to damnation!"

"You said that before, Fallen One," Sandalphon sneered back. "Nothing happened."

"The Almighty released me from your bonds. The Almighty healed me from what you had done and you had encouraged. Sandalphon, turn back from this unholy bloodlust! You’re in danger of Falling!"

Sandalphon laughed in his face. "You consort with a demon! You allow demons into your bookshop! You stink of evil and you carry hellfire!" He raised his sword for another rush. "You’re practically a demon yourself and _you_ dare claim _I’ll_ Fall?"

"Look to your wings, Sandalphon!" Aziraphale urged. "Look at them!"

"I’ll preen after I’ve clipped yours, demon!" Sandalphon rushed him again and Aziraphale flew backwards, barely staying out of reach.

"Sandalphon, for once listen to me! I’ve witnessed damnation since the war! Since Cain lifted his hand against his brother. Against his brother, Sandalphon, just as you are!"

"You are no brother of mine!" For once Sandalphon didn’t bull-rush Aziraphale. He circled slowly, letting Aziraphale see the glee in his eyes. "I’m going to enjoy this, traitor. I’m going to kill you and then I’m going to kill that flying abomination Crowley. Gabriel will reward me for my service to Heaven."

"Turn back! It's not too late! A Fall is the only reward for angel killing angel!"

"You. Don’t. Count." Sandalphon laughed again, an ugly sound, a demonic sound, full of bloodlust, pride, and anger. He spread his wings for the next attack and now what was happening was obvious. There was a clamor of voices all around; Aziraphale could hear Michael’s and Uriel’s, but couldn’t pick out what they were saying.

Gabriel’s voice, however, carried like his horn. "Fall back, Sandalphon! Stop!"

"Not until I’ve taken care of these two!" Sandalphon called back. He started another lunge at Aziraphale…

…but his rapidly blackening wings finally failed him.

Gabriel stooped like a hawk, arm outstretched, trying to catch the hand Sandalphon frantically reached upwards. A hundred yards separated their fingers, fifty yards, twelve, five…

Too late. Sandalphon plunged into the waiting demon army.

"I’m… I’m an angel. I’m an angel! I’m an…" Sandalphon repeated in confusion, trying to stand on what were now hooves.

"I’m a duke of Hell," Hastur said, and killed him.

Less than a second later Hastur was skewered by a diving, screaming Gabriel and the second war of Heaven and Hell began.


	9. Armageddit Back On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the armies rushed together, Aziraphale and Crowley rushed to get out from between them.

As the armies rushed together, Aziraphale and Crowley rushed to get out from between them.

Aziraphale was weeping as they landed safely beyond the battlefield. "Why wouldn’t he listen?" he whispered. "Why? The Lord commands us to save those in risk of damnation."

"Didn’t command me," was Crowley’s terse response. "More like the opposite. Good riddance to Hastur, that’s all I’ve got to say. Here, give me that." He took the hellfire sword from Aziraphale’s limp hand, tried to offer his in return. The angel shook his head and turned away when offered the blessed blade so Crowley shrugged and dropped it on the ground.

There was a blaze of celestial glory above them; Aziraphale’s left wing snapped open protectively over Crowley and the dropped sword miraculously appeared in his right hand.

Michael was hovering above them; she spread her hands, showing they were empty. "Everything Sandalphon did to you, everything he said to you, and you tried to save him right up to the end."

"The Lord commands us," Aziraphale repeated simply.

"Got your precious war after all," Crowley snapped, coming out and planting himself protectively in front of Aziraphale. "Don’t you want to go fight in it?"

"You flew, demon."

"Yup."

"You’re not trying to strike me down, despite what I have done to you."

"I’ve got Aziraphale to worry about. If you come after me when I’m alone, then you’ll have me to worry about."

Michael stared at them both for a moment. "I don’t know any longer if you’re the worst of us or the best of us," she finally told Aziraphale. "Either way, I will ensure Gabriel leaves you both be. I will not raise a hand against either of you unless it is in defense of innocents or at the command of God."

"Don’t raise a hand against the Earth, either," Aziraphale added.

"Or the Earth. This I swear." Michael took a step back in midair then launched away, a lance coming to her hands.

The solemn moment was broken when a different angel almost dropped on their heads.

-

Laradiri was in trouble. Some form of projectile from Hell’s army had clipped their wing and they were struggling hard to turn a plummet into a crash landing. Muscles in their shoulders screamed as they tried to glide to miss the couple beside the battlefield, managing that but nothing more as they rolled in the dirt. They were still trying to catch their breath when a demon bolted from the battle and jumped on their back. Laradiri bucked, but the demon dug in and held on.

Dug in - but not too deeply. The demon had huge claws, but Laradiri noticed that they were taking pains not to gouge into their skin.

"My name is Ashmedai," the demon whispered roughly into their ear. "In a minute I will pull a broken feather out of your wing."

"Why?"

"Because it’s broken? Because it won’t help you and pulling it won’t hurt you?"

"Why do you care about hurting me?" Laradiri asked, still trying to buck the demon off.

"No books leave the premises. Violators will be fed to the snake," the demon answered nonsensically.

Laradiri went still in confusion. "What?"

"Bookshop Truce!" Ashmedai hissed angrily.

"But… we're not inside the…"

"I don’t want to fight this war, understand? I’ve seen you in the Knowledge Shop. That means you’ve already accepted a truce with demons. So here’s how it goes. I pluck feathers. You scream. You try to punch me. I dance away. Both sides think we’re fighting like good little soldiers and we don’t really hurt each other."

"Uhhhhh…" Suddenly Laradiri understood, right to their celestial bones, why Crowley said "ngk" every time he got confused. It seemed like the only thing to say, so they said it too.

Surprisingly, it helped.

Ashmedai dug in a little harder, reminding Laradiri of the claws. "I’m staying right here until you promise. The only angel I want to really hurt is the one who messed it up for us all by bringing holy water into the shop. I find out who that one is, I swear I’ll kill them."

"Okay, okay, I promise!" Laradiri all but screamed. "Feather, then punch, then… then… then you pick up a rock and miss me on the throw, okay?"

"Okay."

"Was it an angel or a demon who messed everything up at the Shop?" Laradiri asked a moment later while their own broken feather was being waved triumphantly in their face. "I heard it was a demon causing trouble for Crowley."

"An angel, but it was because of Guziel," Ashmedai said, leaning back from a half-hearted punch. "Speaking of whom, let’s take this fake battle in that direction." A claw was poked to an area shielded from the battlefield by rocks.

"Why?" Laradiri eyed the rocks nervously. Something was slumped behind them.

Ashmedai grinned, showing a muzzle full of very, very sharp teeth. "Because I can’t take credit for killing Guziel, but you can. Might even get a medal."

Laradiri was so shocked they forgot to avoid the thrown rock.

-

Crowley and Aziraphale watched silently from the side, as they had watched at so many pivotal moments on Earth. Whether they had instigated something or not, whether they had taken credit (rightfully or not) – they had been there and witnessed everything, from Adam and Eve walking out into the desert to the Antichrist shaming Satan back into Hell.

But this time, there was a slight difference. As Laradiri and Ashmedai moved away, they reached for each other’s hands.

"Someone brought holy water into the shop?"

"It was that idiot. Thought I was immune, of course."

"Everyone is supposed to think that."

"Yeah, well, I’m not. They came for me seconds later. You?"

"Heaven must have come right after Hell captured you." Aziraphale watched the fake battle, which was now just randomly waving claws and wings over the covering rocks. "I can’t see Laradiri meaning any harm, though. Not if they thought you were immune." Aziraphale paused. "On the other hand, the road to Hell is paved with-"

"Frozen door-to-door insurance salesmen, actually," Crowley finished. "I did it."

They looked around, paying closer attention to the little one-on-one or two-on-two melees breaking out at the sides of the battle; bookshop angels and demons all, putting up a good show but not actually hurting one another.

"Oh, look, it’s Maroch," Aziraphale said, and forgot himself enough to wave.

Maroch waved back. So did the demon they were fighting.

Crowley looked to another breakout fight, where a demon had just gut-punched the angel Heziel. "Oi! Samoy!" Crowley shouted but Heziel, still crouched over holding their belly, flashed a quick thumbs up as Samoy blushed.

"They’re everywhere," Aziraphale marveled. "We did that. We couldn’t stop the war, but we stopped some of the fighting."

"If anyone asks," Crowley grumped, "I’m going to say it was to thwart Heaven’s battle plans."

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. "We’re on our side, remember? Only it looks like our side may be bigger than we thought."

"Hmmmm."

"Was this planet one of yours, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, feeling the wince as the truly fighting part of the armies gouged out craters in the dirt and burned all around them to waste.

"Nah." Crowley squinted up into the Heavenly hosts, eventually pointing at one. "See the archer? Male aspect? Long black hair? ‘S his."

"Good. I hate to think they were disrespecting your work." Aziraphale leaned against Crowley, looking up into the sky, relaxed and friendly as if they were having a midnight picnic. "I wonder which one is the Earth."

"Oh, that’s easy." Crowley pointed at one of the stars. "That’s Earth’s sun."

"Let’s go home."

-

Dirt. Cold. Dirt. Then they were rising through the back alley behind the shop, next to the bins. Aziraphale noticed with a certain amount of resigned irritation that his armor had disappeared at some point in the proceedings, leaving his beloved, if now battered, clothing covered in filth.

He snapped the back door to the shop open (secretly relieved that he could still do so; what would he do with himself if he suddenly couldn’t work frivolous miracles?) and turned on the light inside.

Outside, Crowley lost his mind.

-

Aziraphale needed careful handling or he’d back off; Crowley had learned that quickly through the millennia. He had to be indulged in his mistaken belief that Heaven was good even after watching its repeated atrocities; pampered in his enthusiasm for food, wine, and books; soothed in his anxieties. (Crowley had spent millennia biting his occasionally forked tongue over how 100% of those anxieties came from the fear of Heaven’s wrath over an angel daring to do too much good, or at least to do no harm.)

Fortunately Crowley had patience in abundance; a good one-on-one temptation took endless patience, and what was the Arrangement but a successful temptation?

The effort of constantly putting Aziraphale first was more than worth it. When approached correctly Aziraphale gave Crowley the ever-evolving entertainment of watching his latest enthusiasms, not to mention lavishing Crowley with safety, company, trust, friendship – all the things Crowley couldn’t have in Hell and didn't remember really having in Heaven either. In return, Crowley gave Aziraphale all Heaven wouldn't – companionship, conversation, respect for the things he cared about. (Those books in the Blitz – was that the first time anyone had told Aziraphale that it was okay to love material things? That the material objects he prized had value simply because he cared? It probably had been.)

But make a demand of Aziraphale without giving him time to mull it over, without leading him into thinking it was really his own idea after all, and Aziraphale would immediately pick a fight and go away, sometimes for decades. He’d done it over the Arrangement, he’d done it over holy water, he’d done it over Alpha Centauri.

So Crowley knew better, he _knew_ better, but he couldn’t stop himself from lunging through the opening, from shutting the door by slamming Aziraphale against it. Not when he’d seen Aziraphale’s clothing in the light.

Every thread that hadn’t burnt away entirely was covered in blood and ash and shoe prints. There was blood everywhere!

He watched his hands, completely beyond his control, begin to quickly strip Aziraphale down, something he’d absolutely never done without gentleness and consent. He _knew_ he was being too rough, he _knew_ he was going too fast, he _knew_ Aziraphale was probably misinterpreting it, but what had they done to him, what had those murderous bastards DONE?

Aziraphale was indeed misinterpreting. "Crowley! I’m not interested… I don’t want… really!" he stuttered, affront in every syllable as he tried to push Crowley away.

Still Crowley couldn’t stop himself. Had Aziraphale been slowly dying all this time? Had the armor hidden a mortal wound? He tried to explain, but all that came out were strangled, incoherent noises of stress.

Aziraphale finally grabbed Crowley’s wrists, holding him forcibly still, a reminder of just how strong the angel was. "I need you to use your words, Crowley. In a sentence, preferably."

Crowley stared wildly into his eyes, trying to remember how language – any language - worked. All he could voice were his wildest fears. "Blood… blood… sssstop bleeding!" Even Crowley wasn't sure if it was an offer or an order.

"Oh! Dear boy!" Aziraphale pulled him in for a fierce hug. "I was healed, I’m okay, really I am," he whispered into Crowley’s ear. "It's all right, I’m all right, we're all right…" He took a breath, cuddling the shaking Crowley closer. "Let’s have a nice bath together, shall we, my dear? You can have a look and I want to check you over too."

-

Crowley, who always flaunted the latest technology (except automotive), had wanted to put a jacuzzi into their semi-shared flat. Aziraphale, who was always nostalgic for the sensual pleasures of the past, had argued for a Roman bath.

The hybrid result looked like a miniature Roman bath but had mechanics that no one in Italy (of any time period) would recognize. During their flat share the bath had proven to be an excellent spot to wash, gossip, and relax, exactly as it had been so many centuries ago. Neither one of them was relaxed now, nor were they talking much, although they were calming down as they washed each other.

Crowley was, to his own shock, already both clean and unmistakably whole. There wasn’t a single scratch on him, not one bruise or speck of filth, but Aziraphale washed him anyway, handling him with as much reverence and care as if he was the rarest of first edition books.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was a mess. His wounds had simply been healed to scars, leaving dried blood and hellfire ash on his skin and in his hair. Crowley bathed him as gently as possible, going over and over him until the wash water ran clear and their human corporations started to wrinkle before he could finally believe that Aziraphale wasn’t still injured.

Once out of the water they mutually preened, giving the other's wings the same minute, obsessive attention they'd just paid to each other’s bodies. Crowley insisted on preening Aziraphale's left wing feather by feather and barb by barb three times before he was allowed to finally tuck it away.

Before Crowley finally, finally stopped shaking.

Then they just sat quietly, forehead to forehead, hand in hand, for a long, long time, before Aziraphale whispered. "Coil up and go to sleep, my dear. I'll deal with the holy water downstairs in the morning."

Once in bed, Crowley fell immediately into exhausted sleep. As usual, he clung so tightly to Aziraphale it was if he was trying to meld their bodies into one. Aziraphale usually viewed this with amusement.

But tonight he didn't use Crowley as a bookrest. Tonight he held Crowley back just as tightly, watching him breathe, privately glorying in the scent of him, the feeling of firm muscle and bone beneath his arms, the warm softness of skin, the sensation of holding a healthy, whole body against his own.

Crowley wasn’t the only one who needed reassurance.

When dawn broke, Aziraphale didn't budge. He just clasped the sleeping Crowley tighter, bowing his head and whispering "Thank You for sparing us, Lord. All praise to You for restoring his flight. Thank You, Lord. Thank You, thank You, thank You."

-

_You're welcome._

-

They were on constant edge for days – Aziraphale even snapped at poor Mr. Solomons for dropping a pencil. When week after week had passed without so much as a stray white pinfeather or faintest whiff of brimstone anywhere near, they slowly relaxed back into their routine. 

But they never got far from each other. 

They ate far too little and drank far too much far too often.

Then one night Aziraphale didn't sober up in time to stop from breaking Crowley's heart.


	10. In Vino Veritas (Effed by the Ineffable Plan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sober, Aziraphale would have heard the tone in his voice, not taken his words at face value. 
> 
> Aziraphale wasn't sober and so he giggled.

"He'vn ne'er appreciated you," Crowley said mournfully, trying with little success to pour anything into his glass, during yet another night when he had foregone cooking (and Aziraphale had foregone eating) in favor of getting as drunk as possible as fast as possible. After the second miss, he just drank straight from the bottle. "Not ever. Not once!"

"They couldn’t, I realize that now. It was all part of the plan."

Crowley stared at him, frozen. "Wha’ plan?"

"The Inefffffab, enefable - Her Plan… well, it wouldn’t work if we didn’ love world, would it? Sooooo I had to be unha- inh - sad in He'vn. Had to feel unwanted. You heard them! Firssst day wi' bookshhhhop, nobody else wanted to be here. Plan wan'ed us stay here. Not go back."

Crowley was shocked into a facsimile of sobriety, mental wheels turning. "Nobody feels wanted in Hell. Guess I was just lucky then, being chosen to come up here. Suppose any demon would do."

Sober, Aziraphale would have heard the tone in his voice, not taken his words at face value. 

Aziraphale wasn't sober and so he giggled. "Can you imagine Beelze - bubze- Dagon? Lovin' annyth'ng? Had to be someone… special."

"Special," Crowley said flatly and deliberately sobered up.

"Special. Nice. Not too…" Aziraphale waved vaguely, slopping wine down his sleeve. "Not too demony."

"A demon who isn't 'demony'?"

Aziraphale blinked, belatedly noticing that the conversation wasn't taking the path he'd expected. "You're not, though." He stopped, concentrated on speaking properly. "You comf'ted me, Crowley, ri' after we met. I was your heredit'y 'nememy, yet you comforted me up there on Eden’s wall."

Crowley thought about that. "You were kind to people God was angry at. You answered my questions," he said, finally. "Or at least didn’t smite me for asking. You talked to me, you answered my question about the sword. Nobody ever answered my questions before. Fell for asking questions, didn’t I?"

"Errr…." Aziraphale abruptly sobered himself up.

Crowley narrowed suspicious yellow eyes at him. "What aren’t you sssaying? Ssspill it!"

"I- uh- I-"

"Angel!"

"All right, all right, maybe it will give you a little peace? Crowley, for the Ineffable Plan to work, we had to work. Together. We had to like each other more than we did our home offices. So… I don’t think you Fell for asking questions. I don’t think you were put in your place like a punishment."

"It wasn't a fucking reward!"

In for ha'pence, in for a pound. "I think you were _put_ in place. Like a- a- a-."

"Like a game piece? Like a PAWN?"

"Like a secret agent?"

"Secret agents know who they’re really working for, angel. I really worked for Hell. Took pride in it."

Aziraphale rushed on, trying to jump this dangerous rhetorical chasm with sheer speed. "But not the _sin_ of pride, there's a difference. It's the difference between knowing you're doing your best and making sure your best hurts someone else."

"Hurting someone else is a demon's job!"

"No. You don't hurt anyone, Crowley. You tempt them, but you don't hurt them. How often have you been appalled that God was hurting people, Crowley? If you Fell, truly Fell, it was because you went against the Divine Plan to go to war in the first place."

"I Fell, Aziraphale. I really, truly did. I absolutely Fell and it HURT!" Crowley launched up from his seat. "I didn't mean to Fall! Nobody told us that could be the punishment! I just had some questions, I was just with the wrong people, I thought I thought I thought I thought…"

He crashed back down. "I thought that if I just talked to God and presented our side, She'd understand. I thought…" He shuddered all over. "Do you know how scared I was when you told me you were going to get God to fix Armageddon? That you were about to make the same mistake I did?" He launched up again to scream "THERE'S NO TORTURE HELL HAS FOR ME THAT IS WORSE THAN YOU FALLING!"

The echoes of it soaked into the books. Aziraphale wondered if sometime he would open something from a back shelf, years from now, and hear the echoing terror released once again.

"It had to be you, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered. "It had to be someone with so much love in them that hellfire itself couldn’t burn it away. Can you imagine Gabriel or Sandalphon truly loving anything? The only thing that Sandalphon ever loved was killing. It’s how I found you, you know, when they kidnapped you. I followed the feeling of your love, Crowley, the only true love in Hell. I found you because you can love, we’re shut of both sides now because you could love…"

Crowley was frozen, swaying, shocked. "I didn’t… I didn’t do anything wrong? I didn’t DO anything _WRONG_ and God just… just threw… me…away…"

He started keening, a raw sound of grief and betrayal that burned Aziraphale’s conscience worse than any hellfire. Aziraphale rushed to him, crushed him in a hug, held him and held him and held him until that soul-rending noise finally stopped and Crowley’s shoulders began to shake.

Still Aziraphale held him, repeating "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I’m so sorry Crowley, it's all over now, it’s all over, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, I'll never leave you," until Crowley cried himself into exhaustion.

Aziraphale carried him up to bed. "I'll keep you safe," he whispered, caressing Crowley’s face as he slumped into unconsciousness. "I'll protect you as long as you need me to, but try not to sleep for a century again, my dear. I'd miss you so much."

-

Depression sleep, Aziraphale was soon to realize, was not the same as Crowley’s normal rest. There was no somnolent cuddling, no reaction to Aziraphale’s voice or presence. It was more like a coma or perhaps hibernation; Crowley was completely unresponsive. If not for the steady feeling of his presence, Aziraphale would have fretted that he’d discorporated.

It left Aziraphale alone with the shop and the humans, realizing miserably that Crowley had been far, far more of a people person than he was. Well, people demon. Worse, it left him alone with his thoughts, which were guilty and painful, circling constantly around all the times over the millennia he had denigrated Crowley for his Fallen state. Crowley had been so, so patient with him, and Aziraphale hurt him like that!

After a fortnight, the students started asking questions. Aziraphale waved it off as Crowley not feeling well, so the next day Mr. Solomons brought a get well card and everyone signed it.

Aziraphale left it open on the nightstand on Crowley’s side. There was no evidence over the passing days that it was touched or that Crowley had surfaced at all. Aziraphale created rituals, not knowing what else to do. Every evening he would read a story out loud, hoping for a response that didn't come. He'd slide into bed, take Crowley's limp form into his arms, and watch over him. Every morning he'd resettle the unmoving Crowley into what seemed to be a comfortable position, tuck him in, and kiss him.

Every day, Aziraphale descended the circular staircase to face another day alone with slow feet and a heavy heart.

Finally, it was too much to bear. He didn't know what to do, and the Serpent of Knowledge wasn't in any condition to give any knowledge to him. Aziraphale miracled the door to Crowley’s side of the flat away so no one could bother him, put Mr. Solomons temporarily in charge, and headed out in search of books.

-

The Waterstones in Piccadilly Circus claims to be the largest bookstore in Europe, not just London. Aziraphale dithered around it at first, wondering if he should add brighter lighting or perhaps new paint to his store to make it more attractive, more like this. But then someone walked past him carrying a huge armload of books to a cashier and Aziraphale felt faint. No, no, the shop – the _reference library_ \- was fine as it was.

Even as a bookseller he felt overwhelmed at the colors, the displays, the options. "Snap out of it!" he whispered to himself, annoyed. "Every book in your shop was new once too!" But there was just something so flimsy about modern paperbacks and so garish about their covers; it made it harder for him to take the words inside seriously, even when he knew he liked the book. (A set of powder-pink, ultra-girly Austen novel covers made him shudder. When had Jane Austen been reclassified from English novel to – what was that appalling sign? – "Chick Lit?")

He chided himself for being distracted. He wasn’t here to pass judgement on modern bookselling, he was here to get what he needed to learn. Following the signs helpfully posted by the escalators, Aziraphale finally found the section he needed.

It was very well stocked.

Unsure of what would be best, Aziraphale finally bought a copy of every title he thought would be helpful. It took him two trips to get it all to the cashier and many bags for him to carry it all away.

The students giggled as he wrangled his purchases through the doors of the shop. Even solemn Mr. Solomons smiled a bit and helped him carry the bags to his alcove in the East.

"Getting more stock?" one of the students asked.

"I can’t believe you went to the competition, Mr. Fell!"

"It’s term break soon," another one guessed. "He just went and bought every beach read they have."

"I bet he’s read everything Mills and Boon ever published. He has the look of a Mills and Boon man."

"Nah, they’re all spy thrillers, aren’t they, Mr. Fell?"

They didn’t mean any harm by it, he knew that, but Aziraphale’s answering smile was a little tight as he acknowledged their chatter.

Then he started pulling out his purchases. Most of the students still couldn’t see but Terry, who had commandeered Crowley’s couch for his research into early books of etiquette for his sociology degree, went wide-eyed and still.

"Maybe he’s into-" floated from the west alcove.

"Shut it!" Terry snapped over his shoulder. When he turned back to Aziraphale, his tone was much softer, gentler. "Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley isn’t just sick with a bad case of the flu, is he?"

"No," was all Aziraphale said as he opened his new copy of _Loving Someone with PTSD_.

-

Six weeks later, Crowley snapped awake. He could smell the stink of holy sanctimony, something Heavenly that wasn't Aziraphale. It was the first sign of anything since the second war and he was instantly on alert. He had to go down there. He had to protect.

But not as Crowley. The human form was too easy to ambush. 

How fortunate he had options.

-

There wasn’t a lot of talking in the shop; it was a place for research after all. The usual background sounds were turning pages, pencils scratching, the quiet clicking of laptop keyboards or phones taking photographs, some whispered note-taking.

So the terrified scream went off like a bomb.

Everyone looked to Lyndsay (researching Shakespeare and his contemporaries), who was gurgling and pointing with horror at the circular staircase.

A massive red-bellied snake was twined around the bannister, looking back at her. Mr. Solomons jumped up and pushed in front of her, a big book in hand ready to throw.

"There you are!" Aziraphale called happily. "Lyndsay, he won't hurt you. Come over here and stop scaring the students, dear. Mr. Solomons, don't scare the snake either. You've met him before."

The snake flowed down the bannister, lunged onto the floor, and made a circle around Mr. Solomon’s feet, its head rising just long enough to knock the book out of his hand. It slithered with speed towards the couch in the East, saw the frozen Terry sitting on it, and rapidly corrected course for Aziraphale, rearing over him.

On the desk, pushed casually under some papers, was a small, blindingly white envelope, the source of the new holy scent. 

The snake looked at Aziraphale, who shrugged casually. The snake twined around him so its head was on its shoulder, but the rest of it just piled into his lap, coil upon coil upon coil until he had to put his book down and make a basket out of his arms to hold it in place (and even then, its tail was still dragging on the floor).

"Make me a bookrest, if you're going to be like that," Aziraphale told the snake, sternly poking it with a finger.

Coils slid sideways.

"Thank you, my dear. Now, if you’d be so kind as to put my book right there, Terry…"

"Uhhhh…"

"It’s only fair, Terry. You’re sitting in his spot."

"I can move!"

"No, no, he’s settled now. Just prop up my book, there’s a dear."

Gingerly, Terry did as he was bid. The snake stuck its tongue out at him and he flinched.

"Behave yourself!" Aziraphale said, poking the snake again.

"The way you said 'There you are'," Jenny (researching Lovelace, Babbage, and early computing for a PhD) said tentatively. "You didn’t… lose it… in here, did you?"

"No, I knew where he was, he just hadn't wanted to come out and keep me company, that's all." Aziraphale patted the snake as much as possible without dropping it.

The snake flicked its tongue insolently against Aziraphale's nose, then settled down to see what he was reading.

_Oh._

That wouldn't be a bad idea to learn himself. Aziraphale might not have the trauma of Falling, but Crowley would bet his last scale that 6000 years of Heaven’s maltreatment left a mark. The snake settled its jaw against Aziraphale’s shoulder, staring at the words.

"I swear, that thing looks like it's reading too," Lyndsay said with a shaky laugh.

"Oh, bookstore creatures are very literate, aren't they?" Aziraphale smiled at the snake. "You've got my hands occupied, dear boy. Turn the page, will you?"

The researchers watched in silence as the snake gently turned the page with its snout before returning to stare over his shoulder.

-

  
"Down, serpent," Aziraphale said, after everyone had left and he'd miraculously locked the door, still holding Crowley in his lap.

"What isss that?" Crowley shifted forms to pick up the envelope. Aziraphale didn't stop him.

"'You have been reassigned to a different department. Archangel Zadkiel will be in touch. Do not contact me again' signed G. Who's Zadkiel? I don't know that name."

"Something about forgiveness, I think. I haven't met them."

They stared at each other for a while, then Aziraphale shrugged. "War must be over. We will deal with this Zadkiel when – and if – they contact us."

Crowley was still staring at the note. "The war must be over, but I bet it was a draw. If Heaven won decisively and destroyed Hell, I'd know. I'd feel it."

"It's ineffable."

-

Considering Aziraphale's obvious topic of research, Crowley was a little nervous about returning to the shop in human shape. He took another week before he tried. It wasn't too bad, though. Mr. Solomons gave him a solemn nod and returned to arguing over Nostradamus with Aziraphale. Toni, a young American exchange student researching Tudor sumptuary laws, randomly hugged him and complimented his hair, which had grown back to shoulder length. Terry gave him a business card.

"My brother, he's been in Afghanistan," he explained. "Says this guy helped."

And that was that. Nobody mentioned his absence again – unlike The Day The Snake Gave Us All Cardiac Arrests, which was retold every time someone new came, especially on those days when said snake was visibly dangling from the stairs or snoozing on top of a bookshelf (it left the couch for Terry). Neil, who was researching the evolution of myths and legends, said later he'd gotten top grades for writing an essay on watching the snake story evolve in real time.

Once the snake had twined around Aziraphale and ostensibly gone to sleep; Aziraphale ignored his massive scaly accessory and went about his business like normal. But that wasn’t repeated after Aziraphale opened the door to a new student who took one look, screamed bloody murder, and ran down the street.

-

Things were so normal that Aziraphale talked himself into daring to take a little time off. Cheltenham wasn't that far from London, and he'd always enjoyed the book festival. Crowley was perfectly able to take care of the shop in his absence. If he needed help, Mr. Solomons had been a fixture there so long he was practically an employee. It would be fun! He'd go to Cheltenham, enjoy himself, savor the world they saved, and come back to find …

Three bodies on the floor of his shop.

One of them was Crowley's.


	11. Inconveniently Discorporated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale would have to journey back into Hell.  
> Only this time with no armor.  
> No divine inspiration.  
> No choice.

Crowley had just finished an afternoon telephone call to Aziraphale, still smiling at his enthusiasm for all things literary festival, when two men forced their way into the shop as he tried to lock the door.

He knew instantly what they were and what they were there for; he'd seen enough strong-arm attempts to force Aziraphale to sell such a desirable location over the decades. Once or twice he'd scared them off by suddenly rearing up in his snake form, but usually Aziraphale – who really could be a delightful bastard when he was angry – gave them sudden changes of heart (and often also of vocation.)

Without an angel around to get all holy about it, Crowley was looking forward to giving them a little Hell.

He wasn't even listening as they prowled around – it was always "blah blah nice place blah blah flammable blah blah shame if something blah" anyway – waiting until one of the two of them turned around to actually look at him to see how the not-very-veiled threats were landing.

"Jesus!" the man yelped, looking into Crowley's uncovered eyes.

"Nope, try again." Crowley grinned at him. Demonically.

"They're just fucking contacts," the other one grunted. "Think you're impressive, you little jerk? God-"

"Nope, not Her either." Crowley was feeling very pleased with himself; he always liked this part. He transformed his head into something monstrous.

The next thing he was feeling was steel between his ribs. Oh, the two men were screaming, of course they were screaming, Crowley's transformations were the literal definition of "vision from Hell." But bless it, one of them had still kept the presence of mind to attack.

As the chill of discorporation started to numb his fingers and toes, Crowley reached deep into their chests, grabbed something that only demons and angels could touch, and dragged their screaming souls down into Hell with him.

-

There were never enough forms or rooms or working equipment to keep up with the job, so Hell's intake hall is staffed by whoever is being punished with the paperwork at the moment. Crowley didn't recognize the demon at the desk, which meant there was a good chance the demon wouldn't recognize him either.

Excellent.

"Here are a couple for you," he said, shoving the souls forward. One was sobbing, the other one frantically praying and crossing himself for all the good that could do him anymore. "Send them somewhere toasty; they like playing with fire."

The desk demon showed too many teeth to the praying soul. "You like fire, eh? Well, let me see if we can comfort your passing in a really, _really_ happy place for you, then." He grabbed the souls and shoved them into a room behind a white-hot door, then returned to his desk.

"Ill done," the demon said approvingly. "Off to be debriefed by Dagon, there you go."

"Uhhh…"

"You know the rules," the desk demon said. "Everyone who goes up top gets debriefed by Dagon. Gotta keep an eye out for what the traitor Crowley's doing and if he's doing it to any of ours."

"Uhhhhhh…"

"CROWLEY!"

It wasn't Dagon's voice.

It was Beezlebub's.

"Wait, what-? YOU'RE-" the desk demon started to stutter. "Flames! Oh my Satan!"

Slowly Crowley turned. Beelzebub had half the demonic army at her back, headed by Dagon.

"Bring him before he sztartsz a riot."

Crowley was seized and marched along behind her.

-

"Talk," Beelzebub ordered as Crowley was held fast before her throne.

"Love what you've done with the place," he replied through gritted teeth. "It's so you."

Dagon drew back a fist to punch him, but Beelzebub held up a hand.

"Why have you returned, Crowley?"

"I got discorporated."

"Azzziraphale invaded this very throne room to rescue you, then let you be diszcorporated?"

"He doesn't know. Yet."

"Hmmm." She tipped her head, considering. "If he tries to szummon your eszzence back, we might be able to szend a different demon up to causze trouble."

"Or Aziraphale might just march down here and fetch me again. Of course, you could prevent that if you were willing to give me another body. I'll go back, tidy up, he never need know." He matched her stare for stare. "Isn't a body worth preventing an avenging angel in your throne room? Again?"

"This time we are prepared!" Dagon shouted.

"Like you were prepared to win the second war?" Crowley asked, expecting a punch (or worse). Instead, a total hush spread over the room.

"He hasz a point," Beelzebub told Dagon.

"He can have all the points we want to shove through him! He-" Dagon stopped as Beelzebub snapped her fingers.

Chains wound around Crowley. Another snap and a shackle led from his neck to her throne.

But, Crowley noticed, not too tightly. They weren’t hurting him. (Yet.) He hadn't even been forced to his knees. (Yet.) Obviously, Beelzebub wasn't going to give Aziraphale a reason to completely lay waste to the throne room a second time. (Yet.)

Maybe hope had a place in Hell after all.

-

It was easy enough to see what the humans had done, easy enough to guess how Crowley reacted. Aziraphale tried to be kind, he really did, he was an angel after all. He was supposed to be Heavenly.

The Wrath of Heaven snapped his fingers.

-

The swank dinner party was going well. Vincent, the biggest crime lord in London, surveyed the scene with satisfaction – lots of bling, lots of weapons, lots of potential rivals making the right decision to join with him rather than fight him.

He was about to seal their loyalty with a toast to his success when the bodies of his two best protection-racket men, men he'd ordered that very day to that weird Soho book place to prove his power by obtaining what no one else had - slammed onto the table out of nowhere, splattering food and wine across the immaculate suits and dresses of the very dangerous people he very much needed to impress.

While his bodyguards leaped up to check the doors and windows, Vincent looked over the bodies. He didn't see a bullet hole, a knife wound, anything that would suggest that one of his rivals was sending the usual kind of message. But Sean the Shiv's unmarked face was turned towards him with a bloodcurdling expression of horror.

It was as if Sean had looked into the depths of Hell and died of sheer fright.

-

Crowley's body was a problem. The knife wound would have been easy to heal if Aziraphale had been there, but it had been some time. Crowley's corporation was cold and stiff, starting the slow process of decomposition. Even if Aziraphale could sense Crowley's essence – and to his great distress he could not – to force him back into rotting meat would be… well, it would be Hell on Earth.

Where had Crowley gone? There was only one place for a discorporated demon's essence.

Aziraphale would have to journey back into Hell.

Only this time with no armor.

No divine inspiration.

No choice.

-

Klaxons went off when Aziraphale strode through the front door of the celestial office building. The only sign he noticed the noise was a slight pursing of the lips; he continued to march forward towards the banks of escalators.

They stopped moving.

Aziraphale lifted his chin and continued anyway.

-

Gabriel wasn't running. Archangels simply didn't run around like chickens with their heads cut off. They strode very powerfully and quickly and with great purpose, and if he was using his very long legs very quickly, well, he had important business to attend to.

His goal was a room that wasn't a room; more of a large, white airy space where soldiers were drilling in three dimensions.

"Principality Laradiri! Assemble your platoon and prepare to repel the traitor's invasion!"

-

Laradiri had taken credit for killing Guziel – or, more accurately, been given credit for being near Guziel's body when the battle died down. Gabriel had very pointedly rewarded them by advancing them to Principality status and awarding them command of Aziraphale's own abandoned platoon.

Terrified of being caught out by Heaven for lying or Hell for messing up the Bookshop Truce, eager to prove themselves keen, Laradiri had thrown themself into their new role. Constant drilling, constant study with warriors from human history and celestial veterans…

… constant sucking up to Gabriel and Michael.

It had worked as a way of making Heaven take pride in them, although Laradiri noticed that sometimes Michael gave them an unexplained side-eye, as if she mistrusted their motives. But Michael never said anything, not even a hint of dissatisfaction to Laradiri or Gabriel, not even after giving that wary, hard look to Laradiri when they told Michael that they would like to recruit a new member to the platoon.

One new member became two, became three, while many of the original members discovered that they'd be happier attached to different platoons. Laradiri made rather a reputation for themself about who they wanted and how they wanted to train. Gabriel praised them for being a keen and avid leader, as opposed to that soft sloth Aziraphale.

And Laradiri had smiled and saluted and smiled and drilled and smiled and slowly, patiently, remade the whole platoon according to their own ideas. Their own ideals.

Laradiri had a plan.

Time to see if it worked.

-

An old, grainy, skipping 15-inch monitor had been set before Lord Beezlebub's throne. She (and therefore Crowley) had the best view of it, but Crowley could feel the pressure of many demons clustering behind them, trying to get a glimpse of the screen.

They watched in black and white as Aziraphale looked up at the one suddenly running elevator. They watched as the platoon of angels descended in full war regalia, each with a sword held upright before them.

They watched as Aziraphale glanced at them, obviously dismissed them as unimportant, and went back to studying the motionless escalators down.

-

Laradiri's plan had seemed flawless in Heaven, when they examined it from every angle. Now, slowly descending, sword outraised, it seemed foolhardy, incompetent, and inevitably self-destructive.

But then, according to management it was two incompetent fools who had foiled the Great Plan itself, even though they hadn't messed up anything because whatever happens must be God's will because no one but especially not those two could possibly thwart God Almighty, now go stop asking questions and do your duty.

As their feet reached the lobby floor, Laradiri raised their sword above their head, and shouted "Forrrrr-MATION!" loudly enough to hide any wavering insecurity. They took a few smart steps sideways, giving room for their officers Maroch, Heziel, and Amides to line up behind them and their soldiers to fall into ranks.

As their sandals hit the floor, Aziraphale turned back to watch them form up. Laradiri could see the moment when they were recognized, when the others were recognized, but Aziraphale's scowl never changed.

There were whispers in the celestial hallways, the divine version of ghost stories in the dark. Whispers that Aziraphale had lost his faith in Heaven. That he saw little difference between Heaven and Hell. That he despised angels as much as any demon, yet still miraculously remained unFallen.

Looking into Aziraphale's furious, unflinching eyes, Laradiri knew the rumors to be true.

-

Someone in the crowd behind Beelzebub's throne suddenly said, "That's the angel that killed Guziel."

Crowley squinted at the tiny staticky monitor. Laradiri wasn't the only angel he thought he recognized. But it probably didn't matter. It was hardly the first, second, or fiftieth time Heaven had decided to punish Aziraphale to keep him in line.

-

"I take it you are here to kill me," Aziraphale said calmly.

"We are here to prevent your invasion of Heaven."

Aziraphale scoffed. Scoffed! As if Heaven itself was utterly beneath him!

"Crowley was discorporated," he said. "I'm here to get him, that's all."

Ah. That meant it was time to put the plan into action.

 _God be with me!_ Laradiri thought frantically, stepping forward.

-

_Don't worry, little one. I am._

-

"What'sz going on?" Beezlebub yelled. "What are they DOING?"

-

Laradiri dropped to one knee, offering up their sword in open palms.

"Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Divine Protector of Earth, if you are not here to invade Heaven, then I turn my command over to you to lead into Hell for the Diabolical Protector Crowley's sake."

Aziraphale's eyes went wide. Laradiri heard the rustling as all of their soldiers – every one a handpicked angel, every one having once sworn a truce to all mortals and immorals within the Knowledge Shop, every one saved in the second war when bookshop demons refused to truly fight them – also dropped to a knee and offered fealty.

-

There was a lot of jostling and shouting around Crowley, then suddenly he was thrown bodily – bodily! – against Aziraphale. They both fell over flailing in front of the kneeling angels, Crowley on top. He was pretty sure he heard a quickly smothered snicker from somewhere, but it didn't matter.

Not when Aziraphale's arms snapped around him in a crushing hug, muttering an exultant "Crowley! My dear boy!" into the ear just above his mark.

Crowley clung back just as tightly, glaring over Aziraphale's shoulder at both the relieved angels and the delivering demons, who were turning to return to Hell via the suddenly operative down escalator.

Carefully, hands held low to keep any monitors from picking up the action, Agares, Marut, and Samoy flashed thumbs up to the angels before descending.

The escalator up to Heaven restarted with a jerk. Laradiri looked up at it fearfully, then rose. Bowing once to Aziraphale and Crowley, who were untangling limbs and climbing back to their feet, Laradiri got on it.

"Wait a while before you come up. Leave a gap," they ordered their platoon over their shoulder as they rose. Nobody had to be told it was so the others might avoid whatever punishment would be meted out on the spot.

-

Gabriel and Michael were waiting at the top, looking resigned and furious all at the same time. Over their shoulders was Metatron.

"I have a message for you direct from the Almighty, to be witnessed by these archangels," Metatron intoned.

Laradiri immediately dropped to both knees, head bowed, wondering what the Fall would feel like, wondering if Ashmedai would help them adjust.

"She says, 'Well done'."

-

That night it was Crowley's turn to sit patiently turning into a prune while his body – his new body – was anxiously bathed over and over and his wings repeatedly preened until Aziraphale calmed down. Or maybe it was his old body, who knew? They had returned to the shop to find his corporation missing from where Aziraphale had laid it to rest, but while he looked and felt the same as he always had, there was no scar between his ribs.

The next morning was difficult. Aziraphale fretted every time Crowley was out of his sight; he wouldn't even step into the center hall to sing to God, which troubled Crowley in ways he didn't want to think about.

But Crowley was very, very clear about one thing. It would be extremely bad for both Aziraphale and their relationship for fear of separation to be allowed to fester and become habit. So as soon as all the researchers had been checked in and settled down, Crowley dragged Mr. Solomons over to the sofa in the eastern nook.

"Show us all the books you bought and tell Mr. S. about everything," he ordered.

"Yes, please," said Mr. Solomons, in comfortable ignorance that he'd just been manhandled by someone who had technically been dead for much of the night. "Was it a fun trip?"

"Yeeeeeesss it was," Aziraphale answered uncertainly, looking at Crowley.

But love of books – and reminiscing over excellent restaurants – were a soothing restorative. The more Aziraphale got caught up in talking to Mr. Solomons, the further Crowley dared to move away. Soon he was popping in and out of the stacks, talking to the students but reappearing as soon as Aziraphale became agitated at not being able to see him. When Aziraphale described in detail his favorite panel (which had been followed by his favorite meal) it took almost 90 minutes for him to realize he couldn't see Crowley – and his response was to simply take a steadying breath, say "Well, he must not have left, I didn't hear the bell," and go on with his story.

Crowley, who had been on just the other side of the bookcase behind Mr. Solomons, heaved a silent sigh of relief.

Had he known what they were saying in Hell, he wouldn't have been relieved.


	12. Take Me To Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three times Crowley had been at Hell's lack of mercy. Three times he had escaped thanks to that meddling angel. 
> 
> Get rid of Aziraphale and Crowley would finally be theirs.

Down in Hell there were whispers in the dark.

Something should happen to that pesky angel.

Something permanent.

Crowley too. 

Three times he'd been at Hell's lack of mercy. Three times he had escaped thanks to that meddling angel. 

Get rid of Aziraphale and Crowley would finally be theirs.

-

Agares was the first to know that something was up, she just didn't know what. Her routine request to go Up and create a little havoc – something she'd been excelling at after Crowley's training – was denied. Sure it was some mistake, she requested again.

The second request turned out to be the mistake. Dagon herself performed Agares' questioning; it was long, it was thorough, and it was very, _very_ painful. Despite learning that Agares hadn't intended to go anywhere near Soho or the shop, and despite being (eventually) convinced that was the simple truth, Agares found herself in one of the coldest rooms of Hell, chained foot, wrist, and neck to the table, working on a crash-prone computer and an unreliable spreadsheet working out historical charts for soul allotment per circle of Hell.

Surely it was a mistake, right? Hell was full of those (in oh, so many ways.) She would bide her time, prove her general loyalty, and someone else would take her place.

The day Samoy was chained right next to her, she realized that this was far, far more than a paperwork mixup and Dagon's bad temper.

-

Ashmedai was the first to know exactly what was happening and how much trouble they all were in. 

All those classes taken on Earth had paid off; Ashmedai had become so good at all-around handy work that he was the most requested repair demon in Hell. All that time in the bookshop had also paid off; Ashmedai's naturally suspicious nature had been honed by one clever demon and one underhanded angel to the point that he could spot official stationery from several yards away and read it upside down or backwards while doing something else entirely with his hands.

Which was why he saw that blessed paper ordering his own detention before it had been sent off to Dagon. A subtle twist to a valve, a very minor miracle; it was the work of a moment to splatter sewage across the entire desk while cursing about pipes that needed to be replaced, and if a certain paper disappeared into the mess in the cart during the chaos, who was to notice? Certainly not the unhappy demon in charge of the now sodden and ruined paperwork as Ashmedai trundled off to the next stop.

It took a little extra work in a dark supply closet to guarantee that the next most pressing problem was going to be in the room where Hell's antiquated and cranky computer network attempted to perform surveillance Earthside. It wasn't a hard problem to fix – Ashmedai wasn't trying to make extra work for himself.

Just create a situation where he could oh-so-innocently run a full-system search for a certain being.

Soon, Ashmedai fled to as much privacy as could be found in Hell, frantically sending a text message.

-

Laradiri's text alert was the ding of the Knowledge Shop doorbell. This was perhaps not the wisest choice, because it meant Michael heard it loud and clear when Laradiri's phone went off in the middle of a meeting with her.

"Give me that," Michael ordered. She glared at the screen, blinked, read the text aloud. "From Fur-E-1. Plans 4 Infernal invasion 2 destroy shop. Earth surveillance can't find A. Is he up there?"

She put the phone down on the meeting room table with a sharp click. "Does everyone in your hand-picked bookshop battalion have a backchannel contact in Hell?"

"I don't know." Laradiri was forcing themself to be calm. It wasn't working.

"Who is Fur-E-1?"

"Ashmedai."

She glared coldly at Laradiri. "You're too young to know a demon from before the first war. You've started chatting with one because of that truce."

"We don't chat, but…"

"But?"

"But we promised to warn the other if something was happening on Earth that… that..." Nobody in Heaven _dared_ whisper either name. Rumor was that voicing either name meant an immediate Fall. "That the Protectors maybe couldn't handle."

"And now that warning has come, only Hell can't find Aziraphale to give it to."

Laradiri froze.

All that happened was Michael continuing to give a hard stare and tap Laradiri's phone on the table.

"Yes, archangel."

Michael stood up. "I think I know where he would be."

-

Ashmedai dithered hard before taking his next step. If he destroyed his phone immediately, he might still be able to claim coincidence and innocence and probably get off no worse than the other bookshop demons, all of them tied up – very, very literally tied up – doing boring paperwork. Anything more overt on his part was guaranteed to mean a great deal of pain, if not his end.

But… Ashmedai had sworn an oath. An oath was a contract, and demons couldn't break contracts – otherwise, all their attempts to get humans to sell their souls away would be null and void. (Also, deep inside, where Ashmedai bewailed his Fall, some spark at his core still wanted to help. To protect.) 

Ashmedai had failed to return his human corporation and Hell had failed to follow up on the missing paperwork for it. 

_May the Lord protect me!_ he thought blasphemously, climbing back into his human suit.

-

_Yes, dear. I will._

-

Ashmedai didn't stop to check to see if any humans were in the area, if it was night or day, if he'd be unnoticed or if he'd have to miracle the whole street – he just launched himself upwards and emerged right in front of the Knowledge Shop.

Time stuttered to a stop around him, humans freezing in mid-step. One of them, intent on her phone, would have tripped over Ashmedai in a second.

"Flames!" Crowley came furiously boiling out the door. "Do you know what it takes to manipulate time on this level? This had better be GOOD! Wait, not good-"

"Not good at all," Ashmedai agreed. "Hell is preparing to invade this shop. You're in trouble. Your angel is in trouble. They want him dead so they can do whatever they want to you."

Crowley froze himself, staring at Ashmedai warily. "When?"

"Soon. Probably tonight, when the businesses around here are closed and the humans are sleeping and won't get involved. There's an advance party here already, trying to find Aziraphale."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I promised to not hurt anyone here!" Ashmedai wailed. "You know demons can't break an oath! They've caught all the others already so they can't raise the alarm. I don't know what's going to happen to me now, but… I promised," he finished lamely.

Crowley stared at him for a minute. "You're the one who wanted to learn all that stuff, aren't you? You were never interested in collecting souls." He held the door a little wider as the street came back to life. "You're about the only one I'd actually believe. Get inside."

-

Everyone in London called the building up the block from the Knowledge Shop a church. Technically, it was a largish chapel, built in the early 1800s by a consortium of doctors in order to raise funds by charging membership fees. Aziraphale had adopted it from the start, miraculously making sure that there were no problems with permits or accidents among the workmen, then protecting it again during the Blitz, but he'd never had an emotional connection with it beyond "I, an angel, ought to promote the exercise of religion" (and also "I, Aziraphale, will be vastly amused at how many Rod of Asclepius snakes I can get them to decorate it with.")

Lately, however, he'd become personally fond of it. Not to the point of attending services of course – as someone who had interacted directly with the Almighty, Aziraphale's main problem with listening to services was throttling the urge to correct the minister. (He also discovered a massive distaste for any form of religious hierarchy after turning his back on Heaven.)

But while Aziraphale's faith in Heaven as a place of peace and good and love had shattered during the End of Days, his complicated love of the Almighty Herself remained in the days after. She had created him. She had created Crowley, humanity, the Earth. She had also done terrible things to all of them, but Aziraphale still loved Her.

He tried not to think too hard about whether he had a choice in this love. Crowley seemed to have developed free will, but Aziraphale wasn't sure he had.

Still, it was a relief to not have to ritualistically petition the bureaucracy anymore and some things could not be covered in songs of thanksgiving. So then it would be off to the chapel, where he would talk to Her to clear his head or tentatively ask for guidance and She would be silent and ineffable about it like She always was.

Aziraphale usually popped in for a few minutes at odd hours, guaranteeing that he had the place to himself as much as possible. Today it was just him, a couple of cleaning ladies, and…

…the archangel Michael?

Michael had appeared in a beam of light pouring through a high window. She looked around the chapel, not impressed, sniffed at the old ladies with their house dresses and mops, saw him and started over.

Aziraphale sighed as she reached the pew where he was kneeling. "Is Heaven never going to leave me alone?"

Michael opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a terribly familiar voice muttering "Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!"

-

Hell couldn't find Aziraphale, but Crowley was on monitor from the moment he left the shop. Beelzebub ground her teeth at the sight of Ashmedai's treachery, but in the end it wouldn't matter. That bit of rebellion could be punished in due course, after the bookshop was ash and Aziraphale and Crowley bad memories.

The grainy black and white monitor of Hell couldn't see inside the church, but it could show a view of the outside land. The advance demons, having followed Aziraphale's divine trail, were lurking on the public sidewalk badly costumed as tourists taking photos. They looked to one side at some sort of disturbance.

"They're going to catch him," Dagon predicted. "There's nowhere else for him to go except consecrated ground or traffic. He'll discorporate either way."

Crowley ran at top speed into the frame – and, without breaking stride, jumped the little fence outside the chapel front and barreled up the consecrated steps.

"Nowhere elsze to go?" Beelzebub asked Dagon, her sarcastic tone failing to mask her confused terror.

-

Heaven's monitor was a 57-inch high-definition crystal-clear technicolor beauty, which had been set to sound an alarm and snap on whenever demons got too close to that particular chapel. It, of course, could see best on consecrated ground, so Gabriel and Uriel saw every flinch, every rocking step as Crowley lurched across holy ground, snapping his fingers to stop the cleaning ladies in time as he gingerly walked over to Aziraphale and Michael.

"They're… they're both on screen," Uriel said in wonder.

"I can see that!"

"Even if they changed bodies again, _they're both on screen_! There's a demon on consecrated ground!"

"I. Can. See. That." Gabriel leaned closer, squinting. "What have those two become? That's beyond going native! That's-"

"It's blasphemy," Uriel whispered. "It's blasphemy and the Almighty isn't punishing it."

Gabriel had a pounding headache. "After Laradiri, I'm afraid She might reward it."

-

"Got a little demon problem," Crowley said, hopping gingerly up the aisle.

"Yes, I can see you," Michael snapped.

"Come here, you idiot!" Aziraphale ran forward to meet Crowley, who jumped up to wrap arms and legs around him. Aziraphale deposited him on a pew, where Crowley sprawled with a less than convincing air of ease.

"Michael! Dude! What brings you down here?"

"I was just ascertaining that when you burst in, dear boy. What demon problem, Crowley?"

"Invasion scouts. Outside. Apparently they're coming for you first, then me. And then probably everyone who's ever set foot in the shop. Real hard-liners about fraternization, apparently." Crowley looked down his nose at Michael. "Not the stern warning types."

"That's what I was coming to warn you about," Michael said. "Hell has decided to invade your bookshop and officially, Heaven doesn't care. If they fail, nothing changes; if they succeed, our plans can proceed without interference."

"If Heaven doesn't care, why are you here?" Crowley wanted to know.

Michael's mouth set in a hard line. " Because I have been recently reminded that my duties include thrusting into Hell all evil spirits that prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Because I saw the Armor of Righteousness. Because I saw Sandalphon Fall. God alone knows why, but Her favor is on you, Aziraphale. I cannot turn my back on that even if Gabriel tries to."

Crowley slid his sunglasses down so she was fully aware of his glare. "You've been treating Aziraphale like an incompetent embarrassment for 6000 years-"

"Longer," Aziraphale muttered.

"-Don’t pretend you care now. Admit it, Mike, you're just here to save your own feathers."

Michael coolly met his glare. "I don't justify myself to demons. I'm here and I'm willing to fight on your side."

Aziraphale was equally cool. "If you're going to fight on our side, you're going to fight alongside him." Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Crowley. "How many are outside?"

"Three."

"They're after you or me?"

"Both of us, I'm sure, but I don't think they'll destroy me on sight. They'll want to capture me as bait to get to you."

"Do they know you're in here?"

"Probably saw me run in."

"But they didn't follow?"

"How could they?" Michael burst out. "No demon could just waltz onto consecrated ground! It would des…troy…" She petered out in the heat of Aziraphale and Crowley's combined glares, then rallied. "What are you, Crowley? No demon could do what you just did!"

"An aardvark."

Aziraphale's non sequitur must have made sense to Crowley, who burst out in sudden laughter loud enough to echo off the vaulted ceiling. Aziraphale waited, smiling at their private joke, until the laughter died down and they once more became serious.

"So three demons are waiting outside for you, and they won't use hellfire because you'd be immune to it." He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. "Up for another body swap, dear boy?"

"Jussst what I was thinking."

-

Gabriel and Uriel leaned forward as Crowley clambered up on the pew and threw himself into Aziraphale's arms. But as the swap began Gabriel cried out in disgust and turned off the monitor.

-

Michael watched with fascinated horror as the two shifted and morphed. With one last "Ow!" the body of Aziraphale dropped Crowley's form and jumped into the pew, kneeling on the seat to keep his feet well off the ground.

In the meantime, the being that now looked like Crowley gently tugged off a cleaning lady's rubber gloves and apron, miracled away the water in her mop bucket, and headed toward the fount. Michael wondered if he'd actually sully the fount with the bucket, but instead the holy water obeyed his wave to leap into its new receptacle.

"Back in a moment, dear boy," he called over his shoulder as he headed out the door. "Send Michael out if I'm more than a minute or two."

And then she was alone in a house of worship with an angel-shaped demon.

"Does the switch always include that much tongue?" she asked.

Aziraphale's bland face stretched unnervingly into a knowing demonic smile.

"Jealous?" At least he wasn't hissing. Michael thanked God – literally – for small mercies.

Crowley turned away, looking around the chapel. "Never been in here before." He started smiling fondly at his pew which was, Michael realized, covered in images of a snake twining around a staff. She looked around. All the pews were, along with many of the other ornamentations.

"Did you do this?" she asked. Who knew – a demon who could trod holy ground might also shape holy architecture.

"No."

"Did he?"

"I hope he did." He was looking at the windows now. The same snake-and-rod image was repeated, along with depictions of angels. Michael didn't recognize any of the faces, of course; humans always had their own odd ideas about how angels looked. But their names were worked into the glass – Raphael mostly, but the occasional Ariel and Haniel, occasionally even masculine versions of her in her less soldierly aspect.

Healers all.

Sometimes she forgot, in endless preparations for war, that Heaven had healers as well and that she was meant to be one of them.

"Do you miss it?" she asked, not sure if she was asking Aziraphale or Crowley.

"Hmm?"

"Do you miss Heaven?"

He turned his head to glare at her; seeing that amount of naked anger on Aziraphale's face was disconcerting. "What do you expect me to miss? Nodding along going 'Oh, yes, Lord, drown all the children because the adults annoy you, what a great idea, holy, holy, holy?'" He snorted at her expression. "You know what's great about being damned? Not worrying constantly about Falling. Don't pretend you don't. There we all were, then all of a sudden, half of us weren't. No idea of what we were risking, no warning, no second chances, just 'get ye hence' and all you high and mighty holier-than-thou angels have secretly trembled ever since."

"Ligur…" Michael stopped. She'd never said this to anyone, but if you can't confess in a church… "Ligur really meant to rebel. He wanted power. I tried to talk him out of it, bring him around, but…"

"I just had questions," said Aziraphale's voice. "I just wanted to understand! I wasn't harming anyone."

For a moment, just a moment, he sounded so quiet and unsettled that she thought she was talking to the angel she'd been scolding and intimidating and underestimating for millennia. Then Aziraphale's body snorted disdainfully and she remembered again who she was really talking to.

Come to think of it, who had she really been talking to during the scolding and the underestimating? Aziraphale had obviously never completely submitted to Heaven's hierarchy either.

It was terribly confusing. Michael wasn't built for confusion. Everything was very clear in the heat of battle.

He was watching her expression change as she reflected. "How did you punish those angels? The ones who offered their swords to Aziraphale. Did Hell lend you enough fire to burn them all?"

"They weren't punished. The Almighty-"

He cut her off. "Popped back in to announce that some rebellion is okay, then?" She couldn't just hear the bitterness, she could feel it rolling off of him in waves. Someone wasn't as comfortable with his Fall as he claimed to be. But before she could answer, she could hear steps coming up the aisle and the rattling of an empty bucket.

"All done," Crowley's body announced.

"Good," Aziraphale's body opened its arms. Crowley's body settled into the pew next to it, turning to return the hug.

So. Much. Tongue.


	13. The Chains That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Suddenly there was a violent earthquake which shook the prison to its foundations. All the doors flew open and everyone's chains came loose."

Michael had expected to be automatically respected and deferred to, considering she outranked Aziraphale and Crowley put together.

Michael had expected there to be a reconnaissance mission.

Michael had expected to then lead a frontal assault.

Michael had not expected to wind up trailing uncertainly after Aziraphale and Crowley, who were practically ignoring her while they argued about how to handle the invasion during the short walk back to Aziraphale's place.

And Michael certainly had not expected to find her path suddenly blocked by a minor demon she'd tried to kill twice. "You're in my way, Crowley" she pointed out as he suddenly braced himself against the shop door.

"Swear," was all he said.

She certainly wanted to, but 'fuck you' didn't seem appropriate at the moment. "What?"

Aziraphale was nodding. "Yes, he's right. Swear to the truce, Michael."

"I'm an archangel! I said all I needed to say on the battlefield! I don't take orders from-"

"Sssswear. No ssslessstial being comesss in unlessss they ssswear to the trussse."

Michael thought about crossing her fingers behind her back, but she could feel Crowley's sardonic glare even through his sunglasses. Keeping both hands in sight, she asked Aziraphale "How do the words go?"

"I, fill in your name."

"I, Michael."

"Swear truce of peace to all in these walls, mortal or immoral."

"To the humans too? I'm an angel, I'm so far above-"

"Ssswear or leave," Crowley hissed. "Ssswear trussse to Asssiraphale too; I don't trussst you."

"And Crowley! I know what you've done to Crowley!" Aziraphale chipped in.

Michael gritted her teeth. "I, Michael, swear a truce of peace to all in these walls, fellow angel, mortal human, or immoral demon. I swear truce of peace with Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, no longer mine to command. I swear truce to the demon Crowley, Demonic Pro-..." It was a step too far; Michael could not honor a self-given title. She rallied. "This truce does not mean I will stop doing Heaven's work. I will defend Heaven and I will defend innocents regardless of who their attackers are or where they have visited."

Crowley nodded once, opening the door. "That'll do – ngk!"

Mr. Solomons looked up from where he had just lit the last candle around the great ritual circle painted on the floor.

"Oh good, you're both back," he said calmly. 

-

Ashmedai hadn't noticed the human at first. It was sitting quietly among the books and scared the Heaven out of Ashmedai when it suddenly said "Would you like some tea?"

Ashmedai had never gotten the hang of mortal food. Searching his brain for the right response, he finally tried "No, thank you?"

"Suit yourself." The human settled back, but kept staring at him. Demons were used to being the ones doing the disturbing, not being disturbed themselves. Ashmedai shifted uncomfortably. The human sat and watched him patiently.

Finally it said, "You have made a very important decision, I can tell. Do you want to talk about it?"

Ashmedai did not but… it was a mere mortal. He could wipe its memory of this conversation very easily without hurting it and thereby breaking the truce. And maybe if he could talk through his nerves he could be of some use to Crowley before the end.

It would be the end, though. Better to go by holy water than go back to Hell. Aziraphale would know a way of killing quickly and maybe even mercifully; he had experience fighting demons.

Ashmedai didn't want to die. Ashmedai didn't want to fight. Ashmedai didn't want… any of this.

"Whatever happens to me next is going to be bad and I'm scared."

"Why? What do you think will happen?"

"I… the last time I did anything like this, I was punished bad for it. I'm going to be punished again this time. I'm scared." 

"Is there no good choice to make?"

"Not for me." Ashmedai turned away from the human's stare to look at the books. "Never for me."

"Was coming here a wrong choice, then?"

"Probably. I didn't know where else to go. Are you some kind of therapist or something?"

"Or something. I… try to help people with making hard decisions. I also try to help them find forgiveness in themselves."

Ashmedai laughed bitterly. "Forgiveness is something I will never get and I cannot give."

"That seems drastic."

"You don't know what – who – I am."

"Then tell me."

Ashmedai tried to go to another part of the bookshop, intending to put a bookcase between him and the human, but suddenly it was _right there_ , blocking the way, eyes boring into him.

"Tell. Me." 

Words gushed up and spilled over without intent or restraint. Ashmedai told, told every bit of it, who he really was, who the bookshop proprietors really were, who was coming, why, how he had become the only one left to sound the alarm. The babble went on and on, Ashmedai listening to himself with mounting horror and confusion wondering why this human was not screaming, why he was saying all of this in the first place.

Finally there was nothing more to say and Ashmedai fell silent.

"The others are chained in Hell," the human repeated thoughtfully. "Well. Going to need some help to break them free, aren't we? The oath will compel them and they've already proven friends – or at least allies – to Aziraphale and Crowley."

He turned and pulled away the huge center rug, exposing the ritual circle.

Ashmedai hadn't realized it was possible to become more terrified.

-

"Now see here!" Aziraphale shouted, rushing forward. "That's not something you should be – you don't know what you're doing! Crowley! Give us time!"

Crowley was frozen, the memory of burning books and the lack of Aziraphale overwhelming what was in front of him. Belatedly, he snapped his fingers. 

Outside traffic stopped moving. Humans stopped moving. The candle flames, those deadly, deadly candle flames, stopped moving.

"No need for that." Mr. Solomons stood up, shaking out his match.

Aziraphale gasped, stumbling back, eyes wide. 

Crowley pushed protectively in front of him, reaching down to snuff one of the candles. "This is dangerous!" Crowley snarled. "I’m not just going to stand here and-"

Mr. Solomons grabbed his wrist. 

"I solemnly swear truce of peace to all beings who have taken the oath to A. Z. Fell and Crowley's Knowledge Shop. Including demons like Ashmedai and you, Crowley. I swear by the Almighty Herself that I am on your side and am here to defend this place."

Michael, who had been left behind at the door, called "Archangel Zadkiel! Is this where you've been? Gabriel and I haven't seen you for ages."

Crowley wrenched free and fell back a step, turning to look at Aziraphale. "Isn't that the name of your new –" he whispered.

"Yes," Aziraphale whispered back, wringing his hands. "How could we not tell? All this time! He's seen everything! Crowley, he knows where you live!" He plastered a nervous, ingratiating smile on his face, so unlike the real ones Crowley had gotten used to, and clasped his hands too tightly to wring. "So, uh, yes, I received the notice that I was to report to your department…"

Crowley listened to Aziraphale stumble his terrified way through a formal introduction. It had been years since he'd seen how tense and miserable Heaven made his angel and for a moment he felt all the hatred in Hell boiling up within him to see it again.

"… But, there was a little mistake, just an innocent little oversight, I'm sure," Aziraphale was simpering, "and I'm afraid no one informed, well, what my duties – "

"Mercy and forgiveness, Aziraphale. I help people find forgiveness and mercy within themselves."

"Ah. That sounds… nice?"

"You and Crowley have certainly done nicely."

Crowley snorted. "Demons don't do forgiveness. Or mercy. Or nice. You do know I still tempt people?"

"All part of Her plan."

"I dragged two souls to Hell directly from here."

"Did they deserve damnation?"

"Their souls were blacker than my wings."

"Well, then, that was your job. Aziraphale, stand at the other side of the circle, will you? Will you join us, Michael? I was going to call for reinforcements. There are other demons like this one," Zadkiel/Solomons gestured at Ashmedai, "who will come to our aid if they are freed."

Michael moved into place. "There's an entire angelic platoon that will obey Aziraphale's command."

Aziraphale looked unhappily between the others and Crowley, then stepped into place.

The demons ducked back into the shadows. All three angels folded their hands in unison.

The circle flared into a column of bright, white light.

-

To Michael's entire lack of surprise, it took less than five minutes before the demons and the newly arrived angels started shouting at each other.

"If Hell knows they're being invaded, they'll just polish off the invasion force and come here anyway," Crowley snapped. "You can't just muscle in at the head of a single platoon and expect to triumph, Michael. Your whole army has failed to conquer them, twice!"

 _Them,_ Michael thought. _Them. Not "us."_

"But how else can we free the bookshop demons?" Maroch asked. "It's not like we can ask politely."

"We could shrink ourselves down, try to sneak in?" Laradiri suggested.

"An angel in Hell?" Crowley scoffed. "They'll sense you right off."

"We'll switch again," Aziraphale said, suddenly. "They didn't sense me before."

Michael cleared her throat. "They'll capture Crowley as soon as they see him," she pointed out. "And whatever they do to him is going to be very public. Whereas Ashmedai will likely be punished-"

"Thanks for reminding me, I'm not worried about that at all."

"-but the odds are good they'll just put him in with the other bookshop demons to deal with later," Michael finished, ignoring the interruption. "I will make the switch."

Michael thought it was a terribly generous offer of her, considering the debasement of sticking her corporation's tongue into a demon, but Aziraphale made a face as off-putting as her feelings. 

"Michael, do you think that you can really pretend to be a frightened junior anything? You? They'll notice it's not Ashmedai in an instant. We don't have a lot of time for lessons in how to pretend to be someone else." 

"Does anyone need to journey into Hell at all?"

Zadkiel had been sitting quietly at the same table he'd claimed as Mr. Solomons, patiently and silently waiting out the arguing. Now he stood up.

"Look, I'm the combat veteran-" Michael started, at the same time that Crowley snapped "It's not like Beezlebub's just going to hand them over!"

"They are chained, yes?" Heedless of the glares (Michael, Crowley) and confused stares (everybody else), Zadkiel moved confidently through the shop, gently pushing Maroch out of the way of a shelf. He plucked a book casually out of the stack (Aziraphale whimpered just a tiny bit) and walked back.

"I became very familiar with your religious text collection when I was Mr. Solomons," Zadkiel told the book's wary owner. 

"The Bibles are mostly misprints." 

"That’s what I enjoyed about them. Still, even filtered through many centuries and many translations, there is much of Heaven in the words. Like these, for example." He didn't even thumb through the book, just cradled its spine gently in an outstretched hand. With a tiny shake, the book neatly fell open.

"'Around midnight, Sha'ul and Sila were praying and singing hymns to God," he read out loud, "while the other prisoners listened attentively. Suddenly there was a violent earthquake which shook the prison to its foundations. All the doors flew open and everyone's chains came loose.' That's Acts 16, verses 25 and 26."

Michael stared at him in confusion. Everyone was staring at him in confusion.

"But they were human," Aziraphale pointed out. "I was there, I was the wind in the door."

"What prompted you to do it?" Zadkiel asked, sounding very interested.

"Well, She…" Aziraphale pointed upwards. "Actually, she…" this time the finger pointed at Michael, who shrugged.

"Simple tasking," she said, just barely stopping herself from adding "for a simple angel."

"And you ordered him to do it because…?"

Michael shrugged again. "Orders from higher up."

"Much higher up, I'm willing to say," Zadkiel murmured, but Crowley interrupted angrily. 

"We get it, we get it. God told the angels to rescue a couple of humans and an angel rescued a couple of humans. But this is different. We're talking about demons in Hell here, not a couple of humans in a mortal building. She put us there. She made it very clear she wants us to stay there."

"Ah, yes." Zadkiel shook the book again, which opened obediently to another section. "'Some lived in darkness, in death-dark gloom, bound in misery and iron chains because they defied God's Word, scorned the council of the Most High." (Crowley snorted. It sounded remarkably like "wankers.") "So He humbled their hearts by hard labor; when they stumbled, no one came to their aid.' Psalm 107, verses 10 through 14."

"All right, but I don't see how-" Aziraphale started, but Zadkiel began to read again. 

"In their trouble they called to Adonai and he rescued them from their distress. He led them from darkness, from death-dark gloom, shattering their chains."

"No," Crowley said flatly. "No. Do you seriously think that half of Hell itself wasn't praying to undo their Fall? She doesn't hear the likes of _us_. It can't… She won't…"

Michael had doused Crowley in holy water – twice - to destroy him and not seen this amount of agony; had heard him in the chapel and yet not understood its depth. She, who had long known the pride and hate that made it right for Lucifer, Dagon, Beelzebub, even Ligur to Fall, was rocked by the pain of this minor demon she had intended so long to squash like a bug upon his Earth. 

Aziraphale had stepped beside Crowley, holding his hand, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Crowley's skin. "You must see that this is an impossible thing to ask," he told Zadkiel.

"I do," Zadkiel said with surprising compassion. "That's why we angels are going to do the praying. We will pray to break their chains. We will pray that they are brought to our aid. We will, in short, perform a demon summoning."

All of the angels – except Aziraphale, Michael noticed – burst out in confusion and protest. Zadkiel lifted his chin and stared Laradiri and their restless platoon down. "You have already made truce with demons," he said sternly. "You have been aided by them. You have pledged to help one of their own. And now you cannot find the mercy in you to help them in return?"

The protests cut off in mid-syllable, the angels suddenly looking away or scuffing their feet on the shop floor.

Then Zadkiel turned to her. Michael lifted her chin in turn; she wasn't going to back down so easily, not to a mere peer! To pray – pray like a human instead of fight, to pray for _demons_ – Zadkiel didn't understand how debasing that was.

Or maybe he did, for his eyes were steely. But before he could say anything, Aziraphale's voice rang out confidently.

"St. Michael the Archangel, illustrious leader of the Heavenly army, defend us in the battle against principalities and power, against the rulers of the world of darkness and the spirit of wickedness in high places… _rulers,_ Michael. _High places,_ Michael. You're defending the weak against the strong, as you always have."

Zadkiel was facing towards her; she and not Aziraphale saw the delighted smile that flashed across his face. "Listen to the Angel of the Eastern Gate, Oh Angel of Chivalry. Is it not chivalrous to protect the weak against the strong?" He leaned in, his next whisper for her ears only. "You know I bring forgiveness. Isn't it time for you to forgive Crowley for doing what he had to in order to protect himself? Protect this world? Protect Aziraphale? Demons have already aided angels. It's our turn now."

Michael ground her teeth, but finally gritted out, "What do you want us to do?"

Zadkiel stepped back, spreading his arms. "The ritual circle is lit. Let us gather around it and pray for the deliverance of our allies."

-

_This is good in My eyes. I will answer your prayers, My children._

-

Chains rattled as Agares leaned back, pressing her hands against her eyes, trying to escape the sight of her monitor for just a second's rest.

There was a loud clatter as Samoy simply vanished, his chains suddenly dropping to the floor. Before she could say or do anything, Agares felt a yank inside and vanished as well.

There was a long, dark pause in her senses. Who had summoned her? Who on Earth even knew her name or had the power? Would she show up in a deconsecrated church? A binding circle? A ritual?

She showed up at the back door of the Knowledge Shop, which was open and spilling golden light into the alley.

"C'mon in," Crowley beckoned. "Join the others."


	14. Hell is Empty and All the Devils are Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the last glimmer of sunlight went out, all the angels' nostrils flared at the sudden, overwhelming stench of pure evil.

A. Z. Fell & Crowley had never been so crowded. Michael held herself apart, refusing to mingle in any manner (a resolution admittedly made easier by everyone, angel or demon, giving her as wide a berth as possible). But she watched closely as angels and demons who recognized each other, either from the abortive war or time spent together in the shop, started casually grouping together.

Every nerve of hers screamed that this was an abomination against the Lord, a defiance of the Divine Command to cast out the rebels, a betrayal of the Hosts of Heaven who had fallen in the war against Satan. But underneath that were a handful of wistful memories of Ligur. Had he lived, he might have been in the shop right now. She might have seen him once again, been able to openly reinstate some form of relationship.

Had he lived.

He did not live. Crowley had killed him, and she had hated him for it, tortured him for it, tried to kill him for it. She had not forgiven him for it. She reached deeper into her memories, trying to imagine Ligur in the shop, maybe even in Crowley's place as he strolled around, demons and angels alike turning to him for orders.

But she was not a being with imagination. That aspect had been reserved for humanity, with Aziraphale and Crowley apparently developing it as part of going native during their long exile from their respective rightful places. Michael had no imagination, so her mental images presented her with honesty instead: Ligur refusing to swear any truce. Ligur exercising any authority or power he had solely in favor of Hell. Ligur proud to rebel.

She and Ligur had managed to maintain a relationship solely because they would never meet again outside the battlefield. They were, at best, counterparts like Gabriel and Beelzebub were, not friends like Aziraphale and Crowley.

Friends or… more. Everyone knew that Aziraphale and Crowley were in love, were probably lovers. Everyone also knew they were outliers, traitors, anomalies. No one else was willing to go _that_ far.

Yet Michael watched as a demon in the back row whispered something into an angel's ear that made them laugh. Crowley called the name of Agares and angels fell back to make a path.

War was the only solution. That was the divine plan. It was written. Heaven and Hell in some form of struggle, which everyone knew that Heaven would someday win because God was, very literally, on their side.

But here on Earth she suddenly saw a third way. One where there didn't have to be war or hatred. One where differences were acknowledged but at the same time unimportant. The Almighty, in her ineffable way, seemed to be leaning in that direction. She had praised Laradiri. Refused to smite Crowley further. Clothed Aziraphale in righteousness.

Michael should have been thankful for such clear direction, but even while she tried to do her part in this new order, it confused her. No, not confused her. This upending of all she'd understood throughout the ages terrified her. Whatever battle she was about to be asked to fight, it would be unlike any other.

Just how unlike any other she hadn't realized until Aziraphale put the garish plastic toy in her hands. It looked like a sort of pump-action rifle, with emphasis on "pump," for it had some sort of reservoir. 

"This is not a proper weapon," she said with disgust to Aziraphale, who refused to take it back.

"Oh, I think you'll find that it is."

And then he was gone again into the mess of the shop, trying again to stuff more of his precious paper materials into the back room away from damage. Why he cared, or why he wouldn't miracle back whatever he wanted made no sense to Michael, but then the whole "shop" idea had never made sense to her.

Very little of what either Aziraphale or Crowley were doing now was making sense to her, either. In addition to clearing the shelves of what Crowley referred to as "flammables," he had been nagging at Aziraphale to do something with something… the telephones? She watched as Crowley, eyes locked onto Aziraphale, pulled out his mobile and made a call. The shop's phone rang and Aziraphale picked up the receiver, but he – eyes locked on Crowley – didn't speak. Instead, he pushed the whole phone, receiver still off the hook, to the back of a desk and buried it in paperwork and files. Crowley, on his part, tucked his phone underneath a small rug on the opposite end of the shop. 

It was completely incomprehensible. Why would Crowley try to call someone within talking distance? Why did Aziraphale leave his phone incapacitated and hide it? Why was he unearthing – oh, was that yet another shop telephone? It looked like it was. That, too, was taken off the hook; this time the phone and receiver were unceremoniously tossed into a bucket of holy water, which was placed in a back corner.

At least the battle plans had been left to her. Laradiri and their platoon had been blessing as much water as possible, to provide munitions for the plastic toys that the angels would wield. The demons, now decked out in rain hats, waterproof coats, and mackintosh boots, would act as the first line of defense, soaking up hellfire and allowing the angels to shoot holy water over their heads. And if that failed – well, plenty of flaming swords to go around. What Aziraphale and Crowley planned was known only to them; Michael knew they'd go rogue at their first opportunity, so she hadn't factored them into her battle operations at all.

Zadkiel himself had blessed several gallons into holy water and then buggered off somewhere unknown.

All this while the sun had been slowly sinking down the sky. As it finally set, Michael ordered everyone into their places; a small line along the back of the shop and two longer ones wrapping around the front corners.

As the last glimmer of sunlight went out, all the angels' nostrils flared at the sudden, overwhelming stench of pure evil.

-

It wasn't long before the invaders found their way in. Michael called a strategic retreat, only to bump back to back with the rear line also retreating. Once the demons got inside, it was pure hand-to-hand mayhem. But while the demon force didn't object to fighting, it was obvious that their main objective wasn't battle.

"I've got him! I've got him!" A gigantic demon, face running with pride and pus, dragged a struggling Aziraphale out from a hiding hole. 

Laradiri's embattled force tried to reach him, to no avail. The leader of the invading forces, the former Principality Verrier, reached out and almost casually reeled him in, holding a black blade against his throat. Aziraphale stopped struggling, looking cross-eyed down at the damned weapon.

"Normally I'd say something like 'Drop your weapons and he won't get hurt,' but who am I kidding?" Verrier laughed. "You die and I'm going to enjoy mopping up these traitors and angels." They took a deep breath and ordered "All of you! Direct hellfire here!"

For a moment, the center of the shop blazed as the entire cohort of invading demons spat, threw, hurled, or heaved hellfire at Verrier and their captive.

When it was over, Michael was still blinking the spots out of her eyes when she heard Aziraphale say cheerfully, "Thankssss, that felt great!" 

He wrenched free before Verrier got over their shock and disappeared behind a bookshelf as Verrier started screaming "They switched! They switched again!"

Again a squirming Aziraphale was fetched out. "Now we know what to do with you, traitor!" Verrier gloated. Michael raised her Super Soaker, aiming for Verrier, but a demon sideswiped her. Part of her was surprised at the depth of her horror in seeing holy water splattered all over the fake Aziraphale.

Who blinked and mopped off his face. 

Verrier opened their mouth to scream again and Aziraphale flicked some of the holy water down their throat. As they choked, he squirmed away again. This time when the huge demon reached for him, he vanished into atoms and disappeared below a rug.

Crowley was caught next, plucked out of the melee. Just as he was about to be dragged to Verrier, Aziraphale reappeared on his own desk in an explosion of papers, wielding a flaming – was that a letter opener? 

The capturing demon fell just as dead.

Michael had fought battle in an orderly, rational manner since time immemorial, since before the first battle of Heaven and Hell. She had been created a tactician, a general, a warrior. She knew how important planning and order were in battle, and part of her had hoped that in the crunch Aziraphale would default to his Heavenly discipline.

He wasn't. He and Crowley were agents of complete chaos, constantly switching appearances (or merely implying they had); no matter how often the attacking demons caught one or the other he would rapidly get free because nobody knew from moment to moment what weapons he would wield or be immune to. Sometimes they didn't bother switching; they just reformed their corporations and suddenly there were two Crowleys or two Aziraphales, causing even more confusion.

The open telephone lines let them switch sides of the shop at the speed of thought – and every now and then there would be a bubbling scream from the holy water bucket as a demon followed Crowley down the line only for a dampened Aziraphale to pop out the other side. 

If that wasn't enough, both of them were mindbogglingly determined to use anything they could wield as a weapon. Aziraphale fought with letter opener, fists, wings, holy water – out of the corner of her eye, Michael even saw him flatten a demon with a hardbound bible to the face. Crowley fought like the evil little sod he was. He was the trickster who pulled rugs out from under feet; the snake who suddenly struck from behind, the stone-cold killer who yanked out one of Laradiri's feathers, dunked the tip in the holy water bucket, and wielded it like a sword against his own kind.

In contrast, Laradiri's platoon was fighting exactly by the book and was winning enough to prove (to Michael at least) the superiority of discipline. Demon by demon, death by death, the bookshop battalion was triumphing.

The battle raged all night; as the first light of pre-dawn touched the sky Verrier rallied their remaining force with a scream of "Retreat! Retreat!"

Demons poured out the battered door and shattered bow windows.

Except the light outside wasn't pre-dawn. It poured down from three heavenly figures suspended over the shop.

"Fear lots," Zadkiel intoned. To his sides, Gabriel and Uriel nodded agreement.


	15. The Calm After the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You owe it to me to respect my wishes for once," Aziraphale snapped at Michael. Where was Crowley? He didn't see Crowley.

Aziraphale was panting as the last of the attacking demons dropped dead. Gabriel was right, he was out of shape. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to have that discussion again; he could see the flashes of light as the archangels outside vanished upwards as soon as they'd killed the remnant of the demonic invaders. 

As he was looking at the damage to his beloved shop in despair, Michael was looking around at the demonic bodies and nodding her approval.

"You'll get a commendation for this," she told him. "I know, I know, you always say you don't want one and we've had our… disagreements… but we owe it to you to-"

It was too much for Aziraphale to take.

"You owe it to me to respect my wishes for once," Aziraphale snapped at her. Where was Crowley? He didn't see Crowley. "I've never wanted any commendations or medals, I've wanted TO BE LEFT ALONE."

Crowley's snake head suddenly popped up from behind the bust where Aziraphale had hung his last unwanted medal, and despite his relief – or perhaps because of it - something inside Aziraphale snapped.

He turned to the bookshop's demon defenders, who were milling around uncertainly. "I believe I'm going to need your help with something. Outside in the back, please."

They didn't quite leave, opting to mill just inside what used to be the back door instead. Crowley went to talk to them – on feet, Aziraphale noticed – and he could feel the sudden dark sparkling of demonic miracles being performed. He looked up from his dig through back issues of Celestial Observer to see the back wall of his bookshop slowly rebuilding itself.

Laradiri whispered "Oh!" With a jerk of their head, they rallied their angels to the shop's shattered front, resurrecting it from the wreckage.

Michael, Aziraphale thought sourly, was just standing there uselessly, looking back and forth between the two groups. She'd thought of handing him some unwanted piece of paper or bit of metal on a ribbon, but never even thought of helping him repair his home.

The last thing he gathered was the medal around the bust's neck. 

The pile in his hands was larger than he thought it would be. Every citation, every certificate, every medal – every trinket Heaven had casually thrown at him over 6000 years rather than ever consider listening to him.

"What're you doing with that, angel?" Crowley asked gently.

Aziraphale looked up at him, willing him to understand. "Hellfire," was all he said.

"You can't-," Michael started in shock, but Crowley was closer; his voice overrode hers. 

"Excellent idea. Hold on, let me get mine while the holy water's available."

Crowley pounded upstairs, the staircase miraculously repairing itself as he ran up it. In a moment he was back and Aziraphale recognized the tidy black and red files – commendations for things Crowley had never done; rewards for human atrocities that made him sick. They nodded at each other and turned towards the back.

Michael blocked their way. "You cannot possibly be considering… Aziraphale. I understand that you are upset. But I cannot allow any other angel witness this blatant disrespect." She called over her shoulder, "Laradiri, assemble your platoon and head back to Heaven."

"No, stay." Aziraphale countermanded calmly. "I'll want your help making sure the hellfire doesn't spread. Then we need to see our allies safely back downwards."

-

Laradiri looked uncertainly between the Protectors and the archangel, not sure which one to obey. Surely the Protectors weren't - that pile was not - they couldn't be intending to destroy every bit of official praise they'd ever gotten! Any angel would give their wings for just the chance at one official reward, and here was a whole pile! Judging from the shocked look on the demon's faces, they were equally horrified at Crowley's intent.

"But… without awards, how will we know we've done the right thing?" Laradiri asked Aziraphale as he swept everything into a rubbish bin. A rubbish bin!

"You'll know you've done the right thing when you've done what you know is right," Aziraphale snapped.

"That's great for an angel, but what about us?" Agares asked as Crowley picked up the bin.

"What about us?" Crowley echoed as he took the bin into the alley out back. "Do you think any of this means anything? Usher was wearing his medal and doing his job with pride when Hastur threw him into the holy water. Management keeps us chasing after paper and ornaments and it's All! Just! Rubbish!"

He poured the commendations, awards, medals, and seals into the center of the alley. Some of the white paper was smoking as it touched black. Some of the black paper was bubbling as it touched white.

"All right. Demons to the front! I want you to torch all of this. Flap your wings to make sure that none of the sparks get near the buildings."

"Paper rises when it burns," Marut pointed out. "Then what?"

"Oh, I'll catch that." Crowley launched into the air.

"Good Lord, I thought him flying was just a rumor," one of the angels whispered. Laradiri was going to call for order in their ranks, but was interrupted by a nudge of cold metal.

"I want all you angels to bless this. Make it the holiest of holy water," Aziraphale ordered, pushing a full washtub at them.

Michael stepped back, shaking her head slowly. "I will have no part of this." She streaked upwards in a blaze of light.

"You're acting as though they mean nothing at all!" one of the angels wailed as the pile went up with a _WHOOF_.

"They don't," Aziraphale and Crowley said in unison.

The papers burned, illuminating the queasy, disturbed expressions on the demons ringed around the pyre. Aziraphale cleared his throat meaningfully and Laradiri motioned their angel platoon forward around the washtub.

This wasn't just another rejection of authority or orders. This felt like the Protectors were severing their last ties with Heaven and Hell. _Lord help me! I want to do the right thing!_

-

_You are, little one. You are and they are._

-

It should have been solemn. It should have had reverence. Angels and demons alike were hushed, marking the moment in silence.

Except for one. Crowley shuddered at how everyone was acting like something had died, like what was burning on the ground was more important than living things. So he flew in and out of the smoke, and mused loudly "Y'know what this needs? Marshmallows. We should be toasting marshmallows."

As he'd hoped, his gluttonous, beloved angel perked right up. 

"Oooh!" Aziraphale cooed, raising his fingers to snap. "Shall I miracle some up?"

-

Ashmedai watched the things burn, then watched the embers wink out, then watched the steam rising as the angels poured their water over the pyre. Not normally an interesting view, but now, in the last moments of his existence, utterly fascinating.

As the last of the steam left the pyre in the back alley, Laradiri turned away and Ashmedai caught their elbow. "Hey, one last favor?"

"Yes?" asked the angel warily.

"Can you… make it quick?"

A couple of the other bookshop demons gasped, but the rest nodded. Agares looked up at Amides standing next to her. "Yeah, can you? I'd appreciate that."

The angels all looked around at each other, confused. 

Crowley, who had been flying all this time, landed. "They mean, end them quickly. Come on, you're angels, you've been killing demons all night," he snapped harshly.

"Oh, Crowley, no! After all they've done?" Aziraphale was heartbroken.

"It's all that's going to be done to me next in Hell that's the problem," Samoy pointed out. "At least this way it'll be fast."

"But… you're allies! I can't kill an ally!" Laradiri protested. "None of us can, we all swore the oath!"

"Beezlebub will be angry that the attack didn't work, and who better to take it out on than the demons who fought against her invasion force?" Crowley pointed out.

"But what if…" Aziraphale started.

Crowley looked at him. 

"Hear me out. What if Hell thinks that they were defending it? Look, nobody has to say they came because of their oath. We summoned them. Literally used demon summing to bring them here. So it's not their fault they came, right? In fact," Aziraphale was warming to his theory. "Summoned unwillingly-"

Ashmedai interrupted. "I wasn't. I ran away."

Aziraphale waved him off. "Summoned unwillingly, surrounded by angels and holy water – that's the truth after all – tried to warn the others, tried to defect to their side –"

"But we didn't!" Agares objected. Aziraphale waved her off too.

"No survivors to say otherwise and no surveillance inside the shop. We made very sure of that." For a moment his affable voice was cold and dangerous. "So. Let's gather up some of the burnt angel feathers that got ruffled here tonight and they go back to Hell talking about how they managed to fight off Laradiri's angels, who tried to follow them right into Hell in retribution for what just happened."

"We didn't!" Laradiri squawked, shocked. "The whole thing is a pack of lies!"

"Yup," Crowley said, from where he'd been staring at Aziraphale with a proud smile. "Enough of a bastard to be worth liking, that's my angel. It just might work, Aziraphale." 

Laradiri thought for a moment, braced themself, and pulled out one of their own blood feathers, offering it to Ashmedai. It was miraculously replaced a moment later, but there was no mistaking what it was or how fresh the blood.

Crowley scraped at the mess of burned rewards with the toe of his shoe, finally fishing out the sodden, lumpen remains of Aziraphale's medal. Most of what hadn't burned outright was melted, but it was still equally recognizable as divine. "Here, catch." He tossed it to Ashmedai, who fumbled but caught it. "Tell them you seared it right off an angel's chest. Tell them you came up as an advance scout to get us to let you in but with the intent of forcing open the bookshop doors for the invaders."

He leaned in closer. "Tell them that yet another war of Heaven and Hell almost started tonight, and now the angels are itching to invade Hell at the slightest provocation. That'll set Beezlebub's flies buzzing."

-

Once the last of the demons had sunk into the Earth, Laradiri and their angels headed back inside the shop, reactivated the ritual circle, and ported home. When they were gone, Aziraphale knelt to snuff the candles.

"I wonder where Mr. Solo- uh, Zadkiel ended up?"

"Here," came the calm, familiar voice. Zadkiel walked out of the back room, his arms full of stashed books and scrolls. "I'm almost done setting your place to rights, Protector." He nodded to the wary Crowley. "Protectors."

"What game have you been playing with us? How did we not know what you were?" Crowley demanded, standing between Zadkiel and Aziraphale.

Zadkiel shrugged. "All I know is that the Almighty asked me to come down and see if I felt you two showed mercy and forgiveness even after the neglect and abuse of your… respective managements. The Lord assured me that you would not sense my nature until I revealed it."

"Ineffable," Aziraphale sighed. "Er, about your expectations of me as your subordinate…"

"Ah. That. Yes." Zadkiel handed his armful of books to Crowley. He plucked a black pinfeather from the top of a chair, a white covert from the top of a bookcase. "As your new management, I order you to keep up exactly what you are doing."

Zadkiel placed the two feathers gently in Aziraphale's palm and closed his fingers around them.

"Matthew, chapter 5, verse 44" was the last thing Mr. Solomons ever said before he stepped into the deactivated circle and streaked upwards.

Crowley stared at the skylight, then stared wordlessly at Aziraphale.

"I'll have to look that one up." By habit Aziraphale went to the religious text section; to his surprise everything was shelved exactly the way he always had it.

Just the way Mr. Solomons had seen it every day. 

Shaking off the sudden anxious shiver, he pulled a huge King James to his desk and paged through it, Crowley craning over his shoulder.

_But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you._

"I’m not blessing Michael or Beelzebub," Crowley announced flatly. "And I’m not working for Heaven. They cast me out."

"I'm not sure we're meant to take every word as a direct order," Aziraphale said thoughtfully, gently laying the black and white feathers onto the page before closing the Bible on them. "Like it or not, we did good for both Heaven and Hell and we did it while working alongside of those that have persecuted us. It's all in-"

"Don't say it!" Crowley begged, and the rest of their conversation was lost when the daylight flooded into the restored windows and one of the human researchers banged on the door.

-

Down in Hell, Beelzebub's flies did buzz. As did her phone with a short text:

"Don't do that again or we'll take the fight to you. – G."

The summoned bookshop demons were released to their normal duties, with a strong warning to stay away from Soho and each other. Ashmedai, who had been witnessed warning Crowley, was assigned to punishment… but the assignment only lasted until some horrible mess with the piping happened that only he could fix.

Conscious of the penalties if they interacted, Marut and Ashmedai didn't speak when they met in the crowded, dingy hall.

But Marut flipped a pipe wrench into Ashmedai's cart as they passed.

-

"Well done, Gabriel. Are you learning to find forgiveness and mercy within yourself for Aziraphale?"

"Don't even make me look at your stupid face for a millennia, Zad. I only listened to you because Michael said Uriel and I had to."


	16. Deus ex Machina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aziraphale. Would you Fall to redeem him?"
> 
> "L-lord?"

Crowley was lazing in bed, enjoying the warmth of the blankets, the scent of his plants wafting through the doorway, and the singing. (And if he occasionally included a little quiet harmony on the final "Thank You for him, thank You for him, thank You for him," in Aziraphale's morning thanksgiving, well, where was the harm in that?)

Aziraphale was halfway through enthusiastic praise for the ingredients of a rather tricky sponge cake they'd baked together when he suddenly went off-key and silent right at the alcohol used to brush the individual layers before assembling the cake. Crowley could see Aziraphale's shadow through the open door as the angel looked upwards and waved nervously.

Wait, shadow? There wasn't enough light at dawn to leave a shadow Crowley could see! Had some ridiculous angel dared show up in their private flat? Someone who _dared_ intimidate Aziraphale _now_ after everything?

Crowley was fishing under the bed for one of Aziraphale's shoes to throw when he heard the voice.

"Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale, to guard the gate of Eden?"

NO! Nononononononononono, not now, why _NOW_?

From the center hall Ariaphale's shadow showed him looking side to side, then nervously upwards. "Errr… You know how it is, Lord, all those millennia ago, hard to remember…"

NOT! NOW! Not when they had everything! Not when they'd saved the world! Again!

"Not this time, Aziraphale. You gave it away, didn't you?"

"Yes, Lord?" He was trying to make it sound like he wasn't actually sure what had happened.

"You gave it away to the humans I had just cast out."

Aziraphale swallowed hard, but he kept his voice neutral. "Yes, Lord."

"That is not all you have done, is it, Aziraphale? You have allied with a demon."

"Oh, I can explain that, Lord! I'm… I'm… I'm redeeming him! He's not so bad, really, he has done miracles and wonders in Your name-"

"Freeing you to perform temptations in Satan's name. Did you think I did not see all? You have done demon's work, Aziraphale."

There was an agonizing pause. Crowley watched the shadow of Aziraphale's head and wings droop.

"Yes, Lord," he whispered to the floorboards.

"Do you intend to Fall, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale whimpered in fear, his shadow thunking to both knees, curling in on itself as he settled on his heels, shoulders stooped, head down, hands clasped before him.

Crowley launched out of bed and rushed to the center room. At least, he tried to.

In the relaxed time since the world hadn't ended and his open alliance with Aziraphale began, he had forgotten exactly what he was. The moment he crossed the threshold he was hammered flat onto his face – a damned, vile, unworthy, unclean, unforgiven thing, a living blasphemy to God and Her creation.

For a bizarre moment, Crowley was thankful that Aziraphale let him clean up here or his cheek would be mashed onto a dirty floor. There would be no dust-eating today; he had mopped the night before.

But the rest of the curse… it was difficult in human form but on his belly he did crawl, although the holy light from God Almighty Herself burned worse than consecrated ground. The pain was nothing, the reminder of his Fall nothing, nothing compared to the agony of knowing Aziraphale was in trouble, that his beloved angel was finally going to Fall. Crowley's skin was a mass of fire; his mind a single scream of "NONONONONONONO" coming out in soft, strangled whispers of "nuh… nuh…"

Yet he slithered on.

Crowley was willing to burn to ash as long as he did it by Aziraphale's side.

Aziraphale's bare foot was just ahead of him. _Thou shall bruise his heel… thou shall bruise his heel…_ Crowley reached out, slow as a nightmare, wrapping his fingers around Aziraphale's heel.

The pain lessened. The pressure receded.

The familiar, loved, hated, desperately missed, violently resented, calm voice of the Almighty said "Sit up, Corlee."

Aziraphale made a quizzical noise as Crowley dragged himself up onto his knees beside him. Crowley also had to sit on his heels – thus far and no further, obviously – but from that position he could throw both arms protectively around his angel.

"Don't cast him out!"

"Do you defy Me?"

"I'm the demon! It's what I do!"

Somehow, the light streaming from above took on a thoughtful hue.

Then it winked out. Crowley was just burying his face in Aziraphale's shoulder in relief when a voice from within the room with them asked "Aziraphale. Would you Fall to redeem him?"

Crowley froze.

"L-lord?"

"Would you Fall to take his place? There must be one of each," the Almighty said with gentle relentlessness. "Light and dark. Good and evil."

Aziraphale began to wring his hands. "Lord, I have always feared Falling. I have tried, in my imperfect way, to do Your will. But…" He looked up at God, hands clutching each other, tears falling down his face. "But for h-"

Crowley wrapped both arms around the angel's head and pinned him to Crowley's chest. Still there came a muffled voice, "Lord, for his sake –"

Crowley slapped a hand over Aziraphale's mouth.

He felt the shudder running through Aziraphale, who pushed him off and sat back, staring at the floor, swallowing hard.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, leave him alone," Crowley babbled desperately, not taking his eyes off Aziraphale, who was taking deep breaths.

The Almighty glanced at him. "He must make this decision on his own, Corlee."

Aziraphale looked up at God with streaming eyes. "Yes, Lord, I would Fall for him." He looked down again as the moment stretched out into a horrible eternity. Loyal to the last, Aziraphale broke the silence in a strangled whisper. "Thank You for Your kindness in giving me a moment to prepare."

Crowley commanded his mouth to scream, his legs to stand, his knees to bear him, his wings to spread defensively. 

They would not.

So Crowley watched in despair as Aziraphale swallowed hard, bending his head and wings even lower in submission, hands clasped together. Crowley's mind was full of the tortures Beelzebub would gleefully commit once she had Aziraphale helpless before her. Holy water in a plant dripper would probably be quick and kind in comparison. And for what? For _what_? Him trapped back up in boring bland Heaven with those wankers? It would be Hell!

There was a long, horrible, stomach-twisting pause.

Nothing happened. 

The Almighty turned her full attention on Crowley. He had wanted to understand, longed for forgiveness, begged for restoration… he had wanted all those things since before the world began, but not like this. Never at this price.

"Don't," he begged. "Don't, don't, please don't, of course I'll stay Fallen for him, I can handle it, I'll do anything, anything, it's my fault, everything is my fault, I tempted him…"

Aziraphale fumbled for his hand, clasped it, squeezed it warningly.

"How often have you told Me that you did not mean to Fall? Constantly. It can be over now. You will be with Me again."

" _BUT HE WON'T BE!"_ The cry ripped out of Crowley with as much agony as his departing divinity had. "You'll break him if You do this, You'll break him, he's been faithful, don't, don't, I survived it, he won't, he won't, he-" Crowley clung to Aziraphale's hand with both of his, as if he could use his own slender weight as counterbalance to keep Aziraphale from Falling.

One corner of the Almighty's mouth curled up in a tiny smile at the sight. "Shhhh," she soothed him, and he felt it, actually felt calm spreading through his essence. He wasn't sure he liked that. "You have already passed that test. He still had to take it."

Aziraphale cracked one eye open and, moving slowly to not draw attention to himself, tried to look at his own wing feathers.

"Test?!" Crowley shouted in outrage. "This was all just a test?"

"Everything is a test, my little tempter, you know that. Everything." She knelt between them, the Almighty coming to their level, looking at them with kind and loving eyes. Crowley looked back with fear and anger, for the first time in his existence close to tipping into true hatred at Her. But he also wanted desperately to lunge into Her arms, coil against the hem of Her robe, worship Her – and loathed himself more than a little bit for the longing.

Aziraphale looked at Her. "Lord?" he asked uncertainly.

She cupped Her hand around Aziraphale's wet cheek. "Aziraphale. From the moment you gave your sword to Adam and Eve even in the teeth of My wrath, the moment you shielded a demon from the rain on Eden's walls, I knew I had chosen well. Always when you see a choice between kindness and blindly following the rules, you have chosen compassion and love, even at your own risk. Faced now with your worst fears, you still put him above you."

Aziraphale's eyes slid sideways. "But… he…"

"Yes. He." She turned back to Crowley. "Corlee. You think you fell for asking questions."

"You told me it was why." Bitterness filled him. "You didn't say it was wrong! I didn't know, I didn't understand! I just wanted to understand!"

"I told you that, yes." Her other hand cupped his cheek now; he tried to flinch away, hating himself for leaning into Her touch instead. "Corlee. Crawley. Crowley. Anthony J Crowley. Of all my angels, only you have named yourself. You have imagination, Crowley, you always have. Otherwise, you would not have been able to imagine things other than they are and question why they are not."

"I didn't mean to Fall," Crowley whispered.

"Aziraphale was right. It was your first test, Crowley. To Fall from Heaven, but not to fall into hatred or anger or pride. You passed it. You passed your second test in Eden when you heard an angel fretting, admitting he was disarmed – and instead of attacking, you comforted him. On that terrible day, in that terrible time, you made your frightened, worried enemy laugh, and I rejoiced."

Aziraphale started rubbing his thumb reassuringly over the back of Crowley's hand.

"All you have done has been according to My Plan, yet still you have surprised Me endlessly, My curious little one, and I have delighted in each surprise. You have done so well, Crowley, and I want to reward you."

Crowley couldn't help himself, he squeezed Aziraphale's hand. Aziraphale squeezed back just as hard. God laughed – laughed! – and Aziraphale and Crowley smiled with Her mirth. "Yes, Crowley. He is part of it."

She sat back. "The two of you have protected and guided My humans as I have wished you to – inspiring and tempting but never directing. More than that, you have shown my quarrelsome first creations another path, one that does not default to war and destruction."

She smiled, filling the little room with their Creator's light and warmth. "I am so pleased."

The hand cupping Aziraphale's cheek slid down to his chin, lifting it up and making him look Her in the eye. "I give you new commandments, Aziraphale. Love and protect this world and its people."

"Yes, Lord."

"Share knowledge with all who come to you and swear peace."

"Yes, Lord."

"Love, take care of, and protect this demon, for I give him to you."

"Yes, Lord!"

"Enjoy the wonders of this world, for it pleases Me to see you enjoy My creation."

"…Lord?"

The Almighty sighed, but fondly. "Praise Me for more than just food, Aziraphale."

He blinked. He thought. "Yeeeeeeess, Lord," he finally said dubiously.

She snorted in amusement. "Praise Me for more than just food, alcohol, and books, Aziraphale, for I would have you experience more of this planet you protect." She released him. "Also, keep up with the fashion a little better. Humans are your charge. You need to pay more attention as they change around you."

Aziraphale looked pained. "Yes, Lord."

The Almighty turned and Crowley felt his chin lifted. He met Her eyes, was flooded with Her warmth, and it was as if he had never been parted from Her. "I give you new commandments, Crowley. Love and protect this world and its people."

"Course," he said casually, and felt warning fingers tighten ever so slightly on his chin.

"Lead to all who come to you and swear peace to knowledge, as you have always led them so."

"Yes, Lord."

"Test them, for it is only then that they know the content of their souls and hearts."

"Yes, Lord."

"Love, take care of, and protect this angel, for I give him to you."

"Yes, Lord!"

"Know that all love is of Me and from Me and his love for you has always been Mine for you as well, just as you are."

Crowley blinked, a rare occasion indeed. "Yeeees, Lord? Does that mean that my love for him is…?"

"The divine that remains within you, my little demon. My promise that your angel will always also be My angel. Now, your last commandment is to enjoy the wonders of this world, for it pleases Me to see you enjoy My creation." This time She spelled it out. "Stare at more than just Aziraphale eating, please. Listen to more than rock and roll. And when all the humans covet some fad, understand what it is and if it is of worth to you, not just that you wish to have the best of what they covet."

Crowley blinked again. "Yes, Lord."

Her hands moved to the tops of their heads. "Rejoice in your love for each other; it is my greatest gift to you. Who I have joined together in love, let no one tear asunder. Nothing can harm either one of you now."

The Almighty released them, bending forward. Crowley heard Aziraphale make a small noise of ecstasy, his hand jerking and squeezing Crowley's. Then She bent to him and he felt Her lips touch his forehead.

It was bliss.

It was forgiveness.

It was overwhelming love.

It was… redemption.

"Well done, My good and faithful servants."

And then… there was nothing. No light, no Presence, nothing.

Aziraphale wiped his face with his free hand. "I'd always wondered why you changed your name by just one letter."

Crowley wondered if the whole thing had been a dream, except why would he wake up sitting on his heels holding Aziraphale's hand? And while he was asking questions…

"Did we just get married?"

Aziraphale smiled. "I do believe we did."

"Up for a wedding night?"

"It's seven o'clock in the morning!"

Crowley raised a hand, fingers poised to snap. "I think I can still change that."

Aziraphale burst out laughing. "No need, dear boy. Dear Crowley! We have all the time we want." He brought his other hand around, clasping both of Crowley's. "We have all the time in the world."

Crowley snorted. "I still want to get you out of that suit. God's orders and all that."

-

MacBaird and Sons, Tailors, had been a family concern for six generations, but Robert knew he'd be the last owner.

"If you go 'round one of the big places I'll give you a great reference," he told his shop hand Louise. "No orders in the last six weeks? We're done, luv. The money's going to run out at the end of the month."

"I've been praying," Louise said steadily. "I know in my heart the Lord will provide for us."

Robert looked around. "The sale of this storefront, tiny as it is, will provide. There's nothing left for us."

The door over the bell dinged. Robert looked over, hoping it was a customer, fearing it was a creditor. What it really was were two of the oddest people Robert had ever seen. One was a long drink of water in sunglasses, jeans, and snakeskin shoes. The other looked like he'd escaped from a Dickens novel – Mr. Fezziwig or one of the other portly characters - and they were arguing.

"-fashionable! Like me!"

"I'm nothing like you, not like that. I just couldn't be comfortable in denim work trousers. I don't shovel coal for a living, I'm a librarian!"

The Dickensian librarian turned to Robert and smiled beatifically. "My good young man, I would like to purchase several suits in the latest style. Light colors, please; blues, whites, and tans, I think, and of course tartan details; you can do that, can't you? I'll show you my family tartan."

"Se- se- se-" Robert cleared his throat and tried again. "Of course we will be happy to accommodate your tastes, but you do know that our suits are bespoke? Made individually for each customer?"

"Well, I should hope so! I couldn't bear to wear anything off a rack. It's so… depersonalizing."

Robert grasped the edge of his counter with sweating hands and tried again. "It's all handwork, you see…"

"Yes?" the Dickensian runaway agreed, confused.

The sort of washed up rocker laughed, but not cruelly. "He's worried about money, angel." He turned to Robert. "Name your price. He'll be wanting…" he looked back at his companion, assessingly. "Let's make it eight suits."

Robert went lightheaded. "EIGHT?"

"Eight?" echoed the Victorian librarian.

"Eight," decreed the lanky man in sunglasses. "Look at him. Look at you, angel!"

"I've kept this coat in tip top condition for over one hundred and eighty-"

Lanky shades turned back to Robert. "Look at his waistcoat. Disgrace, isn't it? So he'll be wanting eight suits. Four fashionable but conservative, and another four identical ones for when he plucks them to pieces." He paused. "Or in case of paintballs."

He slid a folded note over the desk, whispering quickly. "Oh, and this, now that he's all blessed and everything. But it's a secret I want to surprise him with."

Eight suits! Robert could hardly breathe, so he decided to let the odd comment about paint slide. "And you, sir?"

"Oh, I don't-"

"Yes," the fussy Dickens character said, firmly. "You do. I insist." He turned to Robert. "He'll need at least two-"

"ANGEL!" the lanky one groaned, as if in pain.

"One of them suitable for a wedding reception."

"Wait, a –"

"Well, we didn't get a chance to do anything formally, did we? Let's do it properly, and have a reception after."

"Shadwell's not invited. You can have Book Girl if you want, though."

The Dickens character leaned over the counter to whisper in the near-fainting Robert's ear. "And there's one other thing I want you to make for him. He deserves a nice new set now he's official again. But don't tell him, it's a surprise." He slid a piece of paper under Robert's unresisting fingers. "Something like that."

Robotically, in shock, Robert took measurements. He showed fabrics. He set a date for fittings.

When they left, chatting agreeably about where to get lunch, Robert flopped bonelessly into a chair. "Ten suits," he said in disbelief to Louise. "Ten suits and – " he checked the two papers – "silken angel robes in deepest black and purest white? What does that even _mean_? It's… it's…"

"It's our miracle," Louise said firmly. "Didn't I tell you the Lord would provide?"

-

It was the beginning of a day of wonders for small, struggling businesses all around London.

"So, one wedding ring in the shape of a snake with yellow diamond eyes and one wedding ring in the shape of wings wrapping around the finger with a ruby sword in the middle. With the word "Ineffable" engraved inside both, is that correct?"

-

"Two season tickets, front row balcony? Why yes, sir, ordinarily those would have been sold but they seem to have become available. Will that be for our Shakespeare series, or our experimental theater series…. Both? Certainly! … Funny you should ask that, sir, this very morning our director decided to change the season from Shakespeare's tragedies to comedies… Yes sir, just the funny ones."

-

"Why, yes, I did just announce a new authors book club! Did you see it on our twitter… no, birds were not invol- … As you can see, there are some necessary repairs that we need to fund and publicity makes so much of a difference to the authors… How it works? Well, we announce our pick on the first of every month and we host a chat with the author on the last Friday… A whole year's subscription? In advance?! Are you sure? … Well, we pick notable, interesting works by people who have published their first or second books without getting much media attention… Ha, ha, ha, yes, it would be quite a miracle if they all turn out to be runaway best sellers!"  
-

"I'll be happy to sign you up as new patrons! As you know, patronage means so much to a little museum like ours… Is that J as in John? … J as in "Just J" yes, of course, silly of me… now, these cards give you free admission at any time, plus at your level of patronage you will receive two invites to every opening party and special behind-the-scenes tours…"

-

"We've done the parts She wanted," Crowley said when they finally made their way back home. "But I can't help wondering what she meant by 'nothing can harm you now'."

"Maybe that we can't be discorporated?" Aziraphale guessed.

"I'm not in a hurry to try that one out."

"Nor am I. But… Good lord! I wonder if She meant-" Aziraphale straightened up. "Follow me, please."

"Anywhere, angel. You know that."

-

The Heavenly monitor still rang out the demon proximity alarm when Crowley entered the chapel. Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel watched in consternation as Aziraphale led an unflinching Crowley by the hand onto consecrated ground. But that was nothing compared to the furor when they watched Crowley shake out his wings, pluck a feather, and let Aziraphale drop it in the baptismal fount.

"It's floating! It's just floating!" Uriel gasped. "Not one bubble!"

"What – what is that fleck of gold on their foreheads?" Gabriel asked, leaning closer.

Michael sighed heavily. "I can go ask Zadkiel but I'm pretty sure it's the Mark of Divine Approval."

"On a _demon_?" Gabriel protested.

"You take it up with Her," Michael sighed again, broken.

Then Crowley tried to sink his intact feather by dunking his unholy finger into the holy water and all Hell broke out in Heaven's conference room.

-

Gabriel texted Beelzebub that Crowley was now truly immune to holy water and God only knew – literally – what Aziraphale could withstand. She did not respond, but she did find Ashmedai and order him to go get one of Aziraphale's feathers _or else_.

Ashmedai returned with Crowley, who was holding a bright, white, newly plucked covert.

"You DARE?" Beelzebub snapped. "Do you know what I could do to you, Crowley?"

"Probably nothing. You did hear about me in the chapel?"

"LIES! ALL LIES!" screamed Dagon, who had and didn't want any rumors starting.

Crowley shrugged and held the feather out. "You wanted this and I'm the only one who touches him. Let's get this over with, hmmm?"

"You're pretty poszitive you're sztill immune to hellfire," Beezlebub pointed out.

Crowley shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

Beezlebub sneered at him, then ordered "NOW!"

The throne room turned into a glorious sauna of hellfire.

When it passed, a healthy Crowley was still holding a perfect white feather. "Good to know," he said.

Crowley tucked Aziraphale's feather into the breast pocket of his new suit and sauntered vaguely upwards.


	17. The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Divine and diabolical authorities spent far more time tracking Aziraphale and Crowley now that they had semi-retired than when they were supposedly on the job.

It was a dark and stormy night. Water was gushing from the sky as if the firmament had opened and let an entire ocean fall through. Lighting strikes were nearly continuous.

One of the bolts of lightning brought an angel, who was soaked to the skin within seconds of landing, the water pummeling her corporation as if she was being punished for stepping out of Heaven. A moment later a demon joined her, coming up out of the ground and getting covered in mud in the process.

At least the rain washed the demon clean again quickly. She looked at the angel quizzically.

"Imamiah," the angel said. "I help humans recognize their errors."

"Penemuel," said the demon. "I help humans make errors, especially in writing. I'm looking forward to doing a lot on social media. Autocorrect was one of ours, you know."

Imamiah nodded once, letting a sluice of cold wet rain slide down the back of her neck under her shirt. Her best suit was being ruined past even miracles to restore.

"Shall we?" Penemuel asked, jerking her head in the direction of the cottage. "Just get wetter standing here. Wish we could have done this in London."

"Management wanted it done immediately," Imamiah said as loftily as possible – which wasn't very, because this corporation wanted to blow its nose.

Divine and diabolical authorities spent far more time tracking Aziraphale and Crowley now that they had semi-retired than when they were supposedly on the job. Throughout the academic year one or the other and usually both stayed in London, running the reference library during the day and attending museums, concerts, art installations, and lectures after hours. They would still aid angels and demons alike if properly approached, but Management Above and Below strongly discouraged that kind of thing these days.

It tended to give their operatives all kinds of odd ideas.

When the reference library was closed between terms they traveled, usually together. There didn't seem to be any point or pattern; they simply drifted to another place and enjoyed being tourists, joining the mortal throng at restaurants, bars, museums, book festivals, garden festivals, and other attractions, and if blessings and temptations rippled out from them, well, what would you expect from an angel and a demon on the loose?

Wherever they were, they ignored other angels and demons they met unless asked for help… or they felt they ought to step in.

No one wanted them to step in. They had a terrifying habit of doing whatever they pleased when they stepped in, official orders be damned (or blessed).

In the gap between Christmas and New Year and for a month at the beginning of the summer break, they always went to ground together in a little cottage in the South Downs – and woe betide any divine or infernal being who bothered them in their private nest!

Hopefully they had received the message that these two would be visiting, or Imamiah's career as a Heavenly operative on Earth would be very short indeed.

Penemuel sighed happily, if soggily. "I can't believe I get to meet Anthony J Crowley!"

Imamiah glanced sideways. "You're lying."

"Demons may lie, but not about HIM," Penemeul told her. "He's so _cool_! Everybody wants to meet him!"

"Cool," Imamiah echoed in disbelief. She had seen surveillance photos and video of the demon. He looked like a skinny little snake on legs and seemed to have only two expressions: neutral and besotted.

Penemeul started ticking off points on her fingers. "He can fly! He can walk on consecrated ground! He's immune to holy water! He stopped the Apocalypse! He's rebelled against God, Lord Beelzebub, _and_ Satan himself and is still around to brag about it! He's received more commendations and awards than anyone else and he's so suave he doesn't even care! He lit them all on fire just to toast sugar treats!" She glanced over at Imamiah slyly. "Plus, he's buggering an angel. He's getting a leg over an actual angel. On the regular."

Imamiah sniffed, or maybe that was the water pouring down her face, trying not to react. She was going to have to interact with demons now, so best to practice ignoring infernal provocation right away.

She hadn't wanted this job. Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel had tried to pass off Imamiah's new assignment as a step up from mere Principality, but it seemed like a demotion. To be taken away from her platoon to sit around on Earth waiting for assignments and not allowed to drill for battle? That was no promotion!

Worse, she was going to have to liaise with the so-called "Protectors," at least long enough to introduce herself and explain why she was there. Unlike this demon, Imamiah loathed both of them – Crowley for being an enemy, Aziraphale for being… Aziraphale. As far as Imamiah was concerned, Aziraphale had run out of all the normal ways for an angel to defile themself – gluttony for gross matter, coveting of material objects, dereliction of warrior duties, and all the rest – and started making up new sins wholesale. Lust for the ancient enemy. Disrespect for warrior angels by making truce with the other side. Even making a mockery of the righteous Holy war (which Heaven would ultimately win, of course) by turning it into a foolish game!

Imamiah had witnessed that last by remote. Until Aziraphale and Crowley found and destroyed it, there had been a video camera tracking them at the cottage.

The beginning of the video had been hard to make out; the first light of dawn had barely touched the sky when Aziraphale came outside and faced the rising sun. It looked like he was – shouting? Praying? Singing? Impossible to tell without audio. He was still doing some sort of vocalizing when the demon Crowley stepped out of the cottage behind him, sharing in the last little bit of… whatever it was.

Then Aziraphale launched into the air, turning to look down as if inviting Crowley up with him. Crowley had launched after him with a carefree grin.

Initially they were just stretching their wings, but as the morning light grew exercise turned to acrobatics, acrobatics turned to chases, and chases turned to play fights, the ancient war between Good and Evil reduced to a lighthearted game. They dove and dodged, wielding twig swords and throwing acorn darts, laughing the whole time. The only thing even approaching actual war tactics was the time Aziraphale had managed to push Crowley out of the air when he was too close to the ground to recover. But even that didn't teach the demon a lesson. Crowley had twisted snakelike in his fall, grabbing Aziraphale and dragging him down as well. They'd ended up rolling down a hill in a bundle of wings and legs, laughing all the way.

Laughter had turned to kissing, kissing had turned to foreplay, foreplay had turned to… all right, she didn't know for sure because a shuddering Michael had turned off the monitor.

Imamiah had tried to get more information out of Zadkiel, but all he said was "Either leave them alone or obey them."

Obey them? Imamiah couldn’t think of a single redeeming quality of either Protector and wanted nothing to do with them or this miserable world – but orders were orders, no matter what she thought about them. Only bad angels didn't do what they were told, disobeyed – and disobedient angels were cast out of Heaven into the company of demons.

As she was right now.

Muffled light could be seen through the pounding rain now, shining through the curtains of the cottage windows. For the first time the overoptimistic Penemuel hesitated.

"They do know we're coming, yeah?"

Imamiah snorted. "What would be the purpose of sending you up here if they didn't know to expect you?"

"Quick discorporation?" The demon shrugged. "Sort of thing Hell might do for a laugh."

They were on the doorstep now. Penemuel straightened her shoulders, tried to push her hair into something a little less bedraggled. "Y'know what? If I gotta go, I'd rather go by Crowley. He's got _style_!"

As Imamiah's shoes touched the doorstep, the cottage's door clicked and creaked open a crack. Imamiah pushed it wider.

"We have come from Heaven-" she droned in a monotone.

"Hell," chipped in Penemuel.

"…and Hell in… order… to…"

Imamiah's bored prepared speech wound down and died, smothered under the sheer psychic weight battering her senses.

The tableau that had been interrupted superficially seemed cozy and unthreatening. In the center was a very old fashioned iron stove. To one side of the room was a man wearing a well-worn Victorian suit, its waistcoat threadbare along the buttons and bottom. He had a glass of wine on a table by his side and a large book in his lap, as if he'd been reading it out loud.

On the other side was a couch that contained a massive black and red snake. It had been drowsing with its face towards the man, but as Imamiah spoke it slithered off the couch and transformed to a red-haired man in sumptuous black robes. For the tiniest moment, Imamaih had to wrestle jealousy. Those were finer robes than she had and she got hers straight from Heaven's outfitters!

But the jealousy was immediately supplanted by a frisson of sheer fear. In photos and video Crowley had seemed small and inconsequential. In person he was concentrated Presence and it turned out he had a third expression after all. Menace was in every line of his body as he glared at them through his snake eyes, silently stretching his wings. They filled the room, tips brushing the walls, protectively hiding Aziraphale behind a barrier of black feathers.

Yet underneath the unspoken threat, Imamiah could sense a profound feeling of love, filling the cottage to the point that it was almost physical. Not lust, not possession – unmistakable love, tens of times, hundreds of times stronger than Imamiah had ever felt anywhere in Heaven that wasn't near the Almighty Herself.

Imamiah was starting to realize just how badly she had underestimated the Protectors. The shame and confusion of it silenced her.

Penemuel, on the other hand, was having every diabolical dream come true. "I am Penemuel, oh Great Crowley, Serpent of Knowledge, Diabolical Protector of Earth!" she gasped, bowing low.

" _Great_ Crowley?" asked a mild, amused voice from behind the wall of feathers. "Oh, dear, now he's going to be insufferable for a week."

"You said I was pretty great last night," Crowley tossed over his shoulder.

Imamiah froze. Was that a... a... a sex joke? Her mouth ran away with her common sense. "Surely, Aziraphale, you don't really let him… let him…"

"Let him have his wicked way with me?" A hand pushed the wing out of the way, revealing once again a shabby middle-aged man with a twinkle in his eye. "I am an angel. It is my job to put the devil back into Hell. And I can assure you that thanks to Crowley's efforts I have been enthusiastically doing a great deal of exactly that."

Now why was Crowley starting to smile in that foolish, fond way? An angel would think he'd be insulted at the reminder his side would eventually lose. Still, there was only one thing Imamiah could say in response, so she said it.

"Heaven thanks you for your service."

To Imamiah's confusion, Crowley threw back his head and laughed so hard he had to sit down on the sofa.

"And Heaven can rest assured I will be continuing my efforts in that direction," Aziraphale said serenely through a huge smile, as the unaccountable Crowley laughed himself right off the couch into a delighted pile on the floor.

Aziraphale put his book down and leaned back in his chair, ignoring his gurgling companion. "Now, I take it you are our replacements? Here to embed yourselves among humanity and carry out orders for blessings, temptations, minor miracles?"

"Only the blessings and miracles," Imamiah pointed out at the same time as Penemuel said "Only temptations, of course!"

"Of course," Aziraphale said, with a meaningful glance at Crowley, who was finally getting himself back under control. "Still, we'll be happy to give you advice."

"Also copies of the Decameron."

The nonsequiteur sent both Protectors into fits of giggles for some reason. Imamiah looked at Penemuel, who shrugged helplessly.

Crowley waved at the stove. "Come in. Dry off."

Imamiah headed thankfully over, only to grind to a stop as she got a better look. It was a round, iron stove with metal burner lids on top. The two burners to the front had pots warming on them. One smelled like cocoa. One smelled like mulled wine. That was normal enough, but one of the back burners had been completely removed to make room for a sword hilt to stick out of the blazing stove.

"Is that hellfire?" Penemuel hustled forward, practically wrapping herself around the iron. "Mmmm!"

Imamiah couldn’t bring herself to get any closer. With a shrug and a hope that this was all right with Management, she miracled herself dry.

"Yes, that's the thing," Aziraphale said comfortably. "Never nice to sit around in cold, wet clothing."

"Especially on our furniture," Crowley said, stepping over Penemuel to ladle out some wine into a mug. "I remember my first rain."

"He slid up to me for protection," Aziraphale told the rapt Penemuel. He looked over at Imamiah a little frostily. "Of course I took him under my wing. It's an angel's job to take care of all creation, even the bits you might not like personally."

"An angel aided you right away?" Penemuel asked from where she was hugging the stove, awestruck anew.

Crowley put the filled mug next to her knees. "First kindness since I Fell. Remember that. They can be kind when they're not being all holier than thou."

"But we are-" The combined stares of the Protectors silenced Imamiah, who blinked in confusion. She felt like she was being scolded, that she had already failed some test. Not fair! She hadn't even done anything yet!

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged another of those silent meaningful glances, then Crowley offered Imamiah a mug. "Try the cocoa. Must be good for angels; mine drinks it by the gallon. By the way, you haven't introduced yourself yet."

Imamiah stared at the mug, frozen in indecision. Surely she shouldn't sully her corporation? Surely she shouldn't take anything from a demon, should she? It had to be a temptation to be resisted, didn't it?

"Suit yourself," said Crowley, setting the mug on a table near the stove. "It'll help warm you up. Or try the wine if you don't like sweets. The official notice gave us your name."

She shouldn’t take anything from a demon. Michael and Gabriel had been very emphatic about that. Not even this demon who maybe wasn't a real demon anymore – if Imamiah concentrated, she could see the Mark of Divine Approval glinting on his forehead as he moved.

But she was being very, very rude to people who could make her existence very, very uncomfortable. She did have to fit in with the humans. And even with dry clothing she was so cold... Hastily, before she could think twice about it, she ladled a little cocoa into the mug, blurted "Thank you, I'm the Principality Imamiah," and moved away from the stove.

Aziraphale beamed approvingly; Imamiah felt the warmth of it spreading into her. It was a new sensation, and she found she wanted more of it. (It must be the presence of the demons for her to rebelliously wonder - had anyone ever actually encouraged her in Heaven or just given her instructions?)

"So," Aziraphale said. "Do either of you have orders yet?"

"Mmm hmmm," said Penemuel as she sipped her wine.

"I am to go to the Brexit protests this weekend, prevent violence, and bless a few participants," Imamiah said proudly, hoping for another wave of angelic approval.

Penemuel set her mug down, concerned. "I'm to tempt people into violence and other sins at the same protest."

Again one of those meaningful looks between the Protectors.

"Worthy cause, blessings," Aziraphale said.

"Oh, yes," Crowley agreed. "Spread all the temptation you can. Very worthy cause."

"Only…" Aziraphale hesitated. "Isn't there supposed to be a big storm that day?"

"Sheets and sheets of rain," Crowley agreed. "Make today look just a little gloomy in comparison."

"Won't the humans reschedule it?" Imamiah asked.

"Oh, no," Aziraphale assured her. "Not something like that. Humans will put up with tremendous discomfort for a cause they believe in."

"Or something that amuses them," Crowley said with fond nostalgia. "Woodstock was one of my best," he told Penemuel.

"Still, Heaven wouldn’t have sent just anyone," Aziraphale told Crowley. "I'm sure Imamiah is up for it."

"My Pen's keen as mustard, you can tell."

"Raring to go, the both of them."

"Wouldn't be here otherwise. Still…"

"Still what?" Imamiah asked, confused. There was an entire conversation going on just under the words and she didn't like not being able to understand what was going on.

"Well, of course you will be working very hard," Aziraphale assured her. "We know that."

"Very hard. In very damp places."

"Very, very damp."

"Just canceling each other out."

"So much work. So few results."

"Of course Hell is so understanding that you've really tried your best."

Imamiah looked unhappily at Penemuel, who looked unhappily back.

"But what else could we possibly do?" Penemuel asked in a tiny voice. "We have to do something."

"Of course you do!" Crowley said. "Very important to send reports saying you did something."

"Whether you were there or not. The humans will get up to this kind of thing without help, you know. The end result is the same."

"Reports saying you've _complied_ with their requests, you just got…"

"Thwarted." 

"And nobody has to be soaked in the rain!" Crowley ended triumphantly.

Imamiah looked at him, aghast. "You _are_ tempting me! You're tempting ME!"

"Yes, I am," Crowley admitted proudly.

"But would they believe the reports?" Penemuel asked.

-

Penemuel and Imamiah tried to fulfill their tasking as ordered in the end, although the pounding rain sent them both rapidly to the bookshop for shelter. As predicted, their every attempt at blessing or tempting worked, promptly canceling each other out. In the meantime, the human protesters did as they pleased, for good, for evil, and usually for a little bit of both.

All the same, after they filed their reports Imamiah got a note of praise for the lack of overall violence, while Penemuel got a commendation for all the arguments and broken relationships caused by missed or misworded texts. 

It had been a wise decision for them to ask Aziraphale and Crowley to help write their first reports.

It was an even wiser decision during that writing lesson to come to a mutual – well, call it an Arrangement.

-

When their replacements had gone, when they were alone in the bookshop, Crowley and Aziraphale smiled and clinked celebratory glasses.

-

Unseen by any of them God also smiled.

For She saw everything... and She saw that it was good.


End file.
